November 8

Some quotes from the 20th century’s greatest English writer, P.G. Wodehouse.

She fitted into my biggest arm-chair as if it had been built round her by someone who knew they were wearing arm-chairs tight about the hips that season.

She had a penetrating sort of laugh. Rather like a train going into a tunnel. 

I could see that, if not actually disgruntled, he was far from being gruntled.

He looked haggard and care-worn, like a Borgia who has suddenly remembered that he has forgotten to put cyanide in the consommé, and the dinner gong due any minute.

Unseen in the background, Fate was quietly slipping lead into the boxing-glove.

There has never been much difficulty in telling the difference between a Scotchman with a grievance and a ray of sunshine.

The lunches of fifty-seven years had caused his chest to slip down into the mezzanine floor.

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