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I clutched at the brow. The mice in my interior had now got up an informal dance and were buck-and-winging all over the place like a bunch of Nijinskys.
P. G. Wodehouse
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P. G. Wodehouse
Age: 93 †
Born: 1881
Born: January 1
Died: 1975
Died: January 1
Humorist
Librettist
Lyricist
Novelist
Playwright
Screenwriter
Songwriter
Writer
Guildford
Surrey
UK
Pelham Grenville Wodehouse
Sir Pelham Grenville Wodehouse
P.G. Wodehouse
Interior
Bucks
Interiors
Winging
Mice
Clutched
Bunch
Informal
Dance
Buck
Place
Brow
Like
Brows
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I pressed down the mental accelerator. The old lemon throbbed fiercely. I got an idea.
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What you want, my lad, and what you're going to get are two very different things.
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One of the rummy things about Jeeves is that, unless you watch like a hawk, you very seldom see him come into a room.
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It's not that I don't trust you, Dunstable, it's simply that I don't trust you.
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I should think it extremely improbable that anyone ever wrote for money. Naturally, when he has written something, he wants to get as much for it as he can, but that is a very different thing from writing for money.
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Sudden success in golf is like the sudden acquisition of wealth. It is apt to unsettle and deteriorate the character.
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His eyes were rolling in their sockets, and his face had taken on the colour and expression of a devout tomato. I could see he loved like a thousand bricks.
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The real objection to the great majority of cats is their insufferable air of superiority.
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Few of them were to be trusted within reach of a trowel and a pile of bricks.
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While not exactly disgruntled, he was far from feeling gruntled. He spoke with a certain what-is-it in his voice, and I could see that, if not actually disgruntled, he was far from being gruntled.
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Unlike the male codfish which, suddenly finding itself the parent of three million five hundred thousand little codfish, cheerfully resolves to love them all, the British aristocracy is apt to look with a somewhat jaundiced eye on its younger sons.
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There is only one cure for gray hair. It was invented by a Frenchman. It is called the guillotine.
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As a dancer, I out-Fred the nimblest Astaire.
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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.
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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.
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