P.G. Wodehouse

I require only a few moments of your valuable time to tell you the story of the greatest detective in the world, my uncle Frederick Altamont Cornwallis Twistleton, fifth Earl of Ickenham.

He was a man to whom a fiancée was a mere incident in life, a chap who was always getting engaged to someone or something.

He had about him the air of a man who has given Fate a good, hard, all-round sock on the jaw.

There is only one cure for gray hairs. It was invented by a Frenchman. It is called the guillotine.

But the point is that I am here, and I am going to stay here until I have the pleasure of shaking hands with the woman who broke off my engagement.

He had the air of a man who would have been annoyed to find himself being devoured by a crocodile.

There is only one way to deal with a blackmailer. Take the bull by the horns. Just walk up to him, and say, 'Look here, you fat, loathsome worm, if you don't do the square thing and cut this out, I will kick you repeatedly in the seat of the pants.' Works every time.

He looked like a man who, if you told him that the world would end in ten minutes, would only just have time to say, 'Well, I'm damned!'

He had one of those round, innocent faces that look as if they had run to seed.

I think you will agree with me that, if life were cast in the form of a melodrama, and the gods were scripting it, the part of the heavy father would be played by Sir Roderick Glossop.

He had a long, thin face, which looked as if it had been left out in the rain and had gone all soft and flabby.

He had one of those weak, tremulous chins that seem to be always on the point of dribbling, but never actually dribble.