From Jeeves and the King of Clubs, by Ben Schott:

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I knew for a fact that the dinner jacket in which he was currently attired had been bespoken on Savile Row, no less, for I was with him at its bespeaking.

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And here he was, in the flesh, leaning against my mantelpiece like an elongated exclamation mark.

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He gave me a look of pure hatred; the kind of look a cat might give having been prematurely let out of a bag.

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As before, Lord MacAuslan was elongated against a mantelpiece like a prime example of Euclidean geometry.

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Lord MacAuslan shot me a knowing look. For want of anything better to do, I shot one right back.

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The Colonel harrumphed, a noise I had hitherto encountered only in novels.

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Not only was the lark on the wing and the snail on the thorn--comme par ordinaire--but as far as the eye could see every other member of the animal kingdom was suitably conjoined with its appropriate poetical appurtenance.

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She had the no-nonsense look of one who, when the mood took her, was prepared to indulge a certain amount of nonsense.

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"I suppose [flying a plane is] devilishly complicated?"

"Can you drive a car?"

"I can. Is it much like driving a car?"

"Not really, now I think about it."

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"That Vandyke of his follows you round the room like the eyes in an oil painting."

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Aunt Dahlia's floral melange resembled nothing less than a crayon scrawl of a scarecrow's funeral drawn by an insolent child.

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Lambert Lyall is one of those curious old shops even Dickens would have called Dickensian.

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As we descended to the front door, I was assailed by a qualm, assuming such things are sold to the public in the singular.

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