His chin gave up the struggle about half-way down, and he didn’t appear to have any eyelashes.
He was either a man of about a hundred and fifty who was rather young for his years or a man of about a hundred and ten who had been aged by trouble.
She looked more like Marilyn Monroe, than anything human.
Roderick Spode? Big chap with a small moustache and the sort of eye that can open an oyster at sixty paces?
The drowsy stillness of the afternoon was shattered by what sounded to his strained senses like G. K. Chesterton falling on a sheet of tin.
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.
I started back to the house, and in the drive I met Jeeves. He was at the wheel of Stiffy’s car. Beside him, looking like a Scotch elder rebuking sin, was the dog Bartholomew.
She looked at me like someone who has just solved the crossword puzzle with a shrewd “Emu” in the top right hand corner.
The unpleasant, acrid smell of burnt poetry.
He uttered a sound much like a bull dog swallowing a pork chop whose dimensions it has underestimated.
And as he, too, seemed disinclined for chit-chat, we stood for some moments like a couple of Trappist monks who have run into each other at the dog races.
A sort of gulpy, gurgly, plobby, squishy, wofflesome sound, like a thousand eager men drinking soup in a foreign restaurant.
Frank and Percy might have been posing for a picture of men who had lost their fountain pens.
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.