Unseen, in the background, Fate was quietly slipping the lead into the boxing-glove.
The only thing that prevented a father’s love from faltering was the fact that there was in his possession a photograph of himself at the same early age, in which he, too, looked like a homicidal fried egg.
The fishy glitter in his eye became intensified. He looked like a halibut which had been asked by another halibut to lend it a couple of quid till next Wednesday.
He had the look of an ostrich that had swallowed a door knob.
He blinked, like some knight of King Arthur’s court, who, galloping to perform a deed of derring-do, has had the misfortune to collide witha tree.
It is no use telling me there are bad aunts and good aunts. At the core, they are all alike. Sooner or later, out pops the cloven hoof.
There is no doubt that Jeeves’s pick-me-up will produce immediate results in anything short of an Egyptian mummy.
I turned to Aunt Agatha, whose demeanor was rather like that of one who, picking daisies on the railway, has just caught the Down express in the small of the back.
She’s one of those soppy girls, riddled from head to foot with whimsy. She holds the view that the stars are God’s daisy chain, that rabbits are gnomes in attendance on the Fairy Queen, and that every time a fairy blows its wee nose a baby is born, which, as we know, is not the case. She’s a drooper.
You wouldn’t think it to look at him, because he’s small and shrimplike and never puts on weight, but Gussie loves food. Watching him tucking into his rations at the Drones, a tapeworm would raise its hat respectfully, knowing that it was in the presence of a master.
Lord Emsworth, whose IQ may be some thirty points below that of an absent minded jellyfish.
You look like Helen of Troy after a good facial.
We exchanged significant glances. At least, I gave him a significant glance and he looked like a stuffed frog, his habit when being discreet.
The Right Hon. was a tubby little chap who looked as if he had been poured into his clothes and had forgotton to say “When!”
Bingo uttered a stricken woofle like a bull-dog that has been refused cake.
There is only one cure for grey hair. It was invented by a Frenchman. It is called the guillotine.
Pongo shuddered, accordingly, and in addition to shuddering uttered a sharp quack of anguish such as might have proceeded from some duck which, sauntering in a reverie beside a duck-pond, had inadvertently stubbed its toe on a broken soda-water bottle.