There was a sound in the background like a distant sheep coughing gently on a mountainside. Jeeves sailing into action.
No one so dislikes being punished unjustly as the person who might have been punished justly on scores of previous occasions, if he had only been found out.
There's too much of that where-every-prospect-pleases-and-only-man-is-vile stuff buzzing around for my taste.
As a child of eight Mr. Trout had once kissed a girl of six under the mistletoe at a Christmas party, but there his sex life had come to abrupt halt.
It was a silver cow. But when I say 'cow', don't go running away with the idea of some decent, self-respecting cudster such as you may observe loading grass into itself in the nearest meadow. This was a sinister, leering, Underworld sort of animal, the kind that would spit out of the side of its mouth for twopence.
Woman is the unfathomable, incalculable mystery, the problem we men can never hope to solve.
I go in for what is known in the trade as 'light writing' and those who do that - humorists they are sometimes called - are looked down upon by the intelligentsia and sneered at.
Statisticians estimate that crime among good golfers is lower than in any class of the community except possibly bishops.
In every romance you have to budget for the occasional dust-up.
...there occurred to me the simple epitaph which, when I am no more, I intend to have inscribed on my tombstone. It was this: "He was a man who acted from the best motives. There is one born every minute.
The brains of members of the Press departments of motion-picture studios resemble soup at a cheap restaurant. It is wiser not to stir them.
Her pupils were at once her salvation and her despair. They gave her the means of supporting life, but they made life hardly worth supporting.
I believe there are two ways of writing novels. One is mine, making a sort of musical comedy without music and ignoring real life altogether; the other is going right deep down into life and not caring a damn.
Just another proof, of course, of what I often say - it takes all sorts to make a world.
It was my Uncle George who discovered that alcohol was a food well in advance of modern medical thought.
A roll and butter and a small coffee seemed the only things on the list that hadn't been specially prepared by the nastier-minded members of the Borgia family for people they had a particular grudge against, so I chose them.
There was the man who seemed to be attempting to decieve his ball and lull it into a false sense of security by looking away from it and then making a lightning slash in the apparent hope of catching it off its guard.
The spine, and I do not attempt to conceal the fact, had become soluble, in the last degree.
It's curious how, when you're in love, you yearn to go about doing acts of kindness to everybody.
You are falling into your old error, Jeeves, of thinking that Gussie is a parrot. Fight against this. I shall add the oz.
What ho!" I said. "What ho!" said Motty. "What ho! What ho!" "What ho! What ho! What ho!" After that it seemed rather difficult to go on with the conversation.
The storm is over, there is sunlight in my heart. I have a glass of wine and sit thinking of what has passed.
...there was practically one handwriting common to the whole school when it came to writing lines. It resembled the movements of a fly that had fallen into an ink-pot, and subsequently taken a little brisk exercise on a sheet of foolscap by way of restoring the circulation.
I just sit at a typewriter and curse a bit.
Golf, like measles, should be caught young.
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