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They were putting on the nosebag together at a table by the window.
I am looking straight at little Seabury, a child who should have been strangled at birth.
‘Mother and I are living at the Hall again.’ ‘What!’ ‘Yes. There’s a smell at the Dower House.’ ‘Even though you’ve left it?’ I said, in my keen way. He was not amused.
You’re looking fine, Bertie. Don’t you think he’s looking lovely, Father?’ Old Stoker appeared reluctant to set himself up as a judge of male beauty. He made a noise like a pig swallowing half a cabbage, but refused to commit himself further.
Outwardly he was all respectfulness, but inwardly you could see that he was a man who was musing on the coming Social Revolution and looked on Bertram as a tyrant and an oppressor. ‘Yes, Brinkley, I shall dine out.’ He said nothing, merely looking at me as if he were measuring me for my lamp-post.
He sighed slightly. All this talk of my going to shows was distressing him. What he really wanted was to see me sprinting down Park Lane with the mob after me with dripping knives.
The man annoyed me. I hadn’t the slightest objection to his spending his time planning massacres for the bourgeoisie, but I was dashed if I could see why he couldn’t do it with a bright and cheerful smile.
THE ATTITUDE OF fellows towards finding girls in their bedroom shortly after midnight varies. Some like it. Some don’t. I didn’t. I suppose it’s some old Puritan strain in the Wooster blood. I drew myself up censoriously and shot a sternish glance in her direction. Absolutely wasted, of course, because it was pitch dark.
WE LOOKED AT each other with a wild surmise, silent upon a first-floor back in Chuffnell Regis.
Careless, debonair. Not a thing on Bertram’s mind, you would have supposed, but his hair.
‘I Lift up my Finger and I Say Tweet-Tweet’
I had scarcely reached the stairs when I observed a hideous form. A little, short, broad, bow-legged individual with long arms and a dark wizened face.
He was wearing clothes of some description and he walked rapidly, lurching from side to side and gibbering.
Mr Wooster is an agreeable young gentleman, but I would describe him as essentially one of Nature’s bachelors.’
It’s not the easiest thing in the world to hit a fellow in the eye with a potato at a longish range. I know, because I’ve tried it. The very nature of the potato, it being a rummy shape and covered with knobs, renders accurate aiming a tricky business.
She paused, and heaved a sigh that seemed to come straight up from the cami-knickers.
By the way, when you say “shorts”, you mean “shirts”, or course.’ ‘No. By the time Spode formed his association, there were no shirts left. He and his adherents wear black shorts.’
He paused, and swallowed convulsively, like a Pekingese taking a pill.
there came to us from the drawing room below the sound of a fresh young voice chanting, to the accompaniment of a piano, what exhibited all the symptoms of being an old English folk song. The ear detected a good deal of ‘Hey nonny nonny’, and all that sort of thing.
Nothing can ever render the experience of being treed on top of a chest of drawers by an Aberdeen terrier pleasant, but it seemed to me that the least you can expect on such an occasion is that the animal will meet you half-way and not drop salt into the wound by looking at you as if he were asking if you were saved.
It is not so much the behaviour of Stiffy that I find so revolting. She is a female, and the tendency of females to be unable to distinguish between right and wrong is notorious.
‘He says my moustache is like the faint discoloured smear left by a squashed blackbeetle on the side of a kitchen sink.’ ‘He always was a poetic sort of chap.’ ‘And that the way I eat asparagus alters one’s whole conception of Man as Nature’s last word.’
‘Right ho! Then bring me my whangee, my yellowest shoes, and the old green Homburg. I’m going into the park to do pastoral dances.’
Who steals my purse steals trash. ’Twas mine, ’tis his, and has been slave to thousands. But he that filches my good name robs me of that which enriches not him and makes me poor indeed.
Comrade Butt looked like one of the things that come out of dead trees after the rain;
‘You interest me strangely, old bird.’
On the occasions when Aunt is calling to Aunt like mastodons bellowing across primeval swamps
Stevens tells me that Sir George informed him this morning that he is feeling a new man.’
Arf.
