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He felt like a man who, chasing rainbows, has had one of them suddenly turn and bite him in the leg.
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And she's got brains enough for two, which is the exact quantity the girl who marries you will need.
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His whole aspect was that of a man who has unexpectedly been struck by lightning.
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If Eggy wanted to get spliced, let him, was the way I looked at it. Marriage might improve him. It was difficult to think of anything that wouldn’t.
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...the shifty, hangdog look which announces that an Englishman is about to talk French. French Language
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At this moment, the laurel bush, which had hitherto not spoken, said "Psst!"
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I shuddered from stem to stern, as stout barks do when buffeted by the waves.
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A certain critic—for such men, I regret to say, do exist—made the nasty remark about my last novel that it contained “all the old Wodehouse characters under different names”. ... With my superior intelligence, I have outgeneralled this man by putting in all the old Wodehouse characters under the same names. Pretty silly it will make him feel, I rather fancy. Critics and Criticism
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new! The fascination of shooting as a sport depends almost wholly on whether you are at the right or wrong end of the gun. Shooting sport
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There are some things a chappie's mind absolutely refuses to picture, and Aunt Julia singing 'Rumpty-tiddley-umpty-ay' is one of them.
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“As a sleuth you are poor. You couldn’t detect a bass-drum in a telephone-booth.”
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The cosy glow which had been enveloping the Duke became shot through by a sudden chill. It was as if he had been luxuriating in a warm shower-bath, and some hidden hand had turned on the cold tap.
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Mere abuse is no criticism.
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It is a good rule in life never to apologize. The right sort of people do not want apologies, and the wrong sort take a mean advantage of them. Apologies
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She cried in a voice that hit me between the eyebrows and went out at the back of my head.
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At the age of eleven or thereabouts women acquire a poise and an ability to handle difficult situations which a man, if he is lucky, manages to achieve somewhere in the later seventies. Gender
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I goggled. Her words did not appear to make sense. They seemed the mere aimless vapouring of an aunt who has been sitting out in the sun without a hat.
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A young man with dark circles under his eyes was propping himself up against a penny-in-the-slot machine. An undertaker, passing at that moment, would have looked at this young man sharply, scenting business. So would a buzzard.
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The Right Hon. was a tubby little chap who looked as if he had been poured into his clothes and had forgotten to say “When!”
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Work, the what's-its-name of the thingummy and the thing-um-a-bob of the what d'you-call-it. Work
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Routine is the death to heroism. Routine, Heroes and Heroism
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A man's subconscious self is not the ideal companion. It lurks for the greater part of his life in some dark den of its own, hidden away, and emerges only to taunt and deride and increase the misery of a miserable hour. Subconscious
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He wore the unmistakable look of a man about to be present at a row between women, and only a wet cat in a strange backyard bears itself with less jauntiness than a man faced by such a prospect.
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…when you have been just told that the girl you love is definitely betrothed to another, you begin to understand how Anarchists must feel when the bomb goes off too soon.
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At five minutes to eleven on the morning named he was at the station, a false beard and spectacles shielding his identity from the public eye. If you had asked him he would have said that he was a Scotch business man. As a matter a fact, he looked far more like a motor-car coming through a haystack.
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His eyes were rolling in their sockets, and his face had taken on the colour and expression of a devout tomato. I could see he loved like a thousand bricks.
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Aunt Agatha is like an elephant—not so much to look at, for in appearance she resembles more a well-bred vulture, but because she never forgets.
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My Aunt Agatha, the curse of the Home Counties and a menace to one and all.
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This done, he felt a little—not much, but a little—better. Before, he would have gladly murdered Beach and James and danced on their graves. Now, he would have been satisfied with straight murder.
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His was a life which lacked, perhaps, the sublimer emotions which raised Man to the level of the gods, but it was undeniably an extremely happy one. He never experienced the thrill of ambition fulfilled, but, on the other hand, he never knew the agony of ambition frustrated....
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The village of Market Blandings is one of those sleepy hamlets which modern progress has failed to touch... The church is Norman, and the intelligence of the majority of the natives palaeozoic.
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Bradbury Fisher shuddered from head to foot, and his legs wobbled like asparagus stalks.
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Henry glanced hastily at the mirror. Yes, he did look rather old. He must have overdone some of the lines on his forehead. He looked something between a youngish centenarian and a nonagenarian who had seen a good deal of trouble.
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"Elementary, my dear Watson, elementary," murmured Psmith.
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The Duke’s moustache was rising and falling like seaweed on an ebb-tide.
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Bingo swayed like a jelly in a high wind.
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