I Am Thinking,’ He Remarked

My Hour For Tea Is Half-past Five, And My Buttered Toast Waits For Nobody.

I Am A Bundle Of Nerves Dressed Up To Look Like A Man!

The Dull People Decided Years And Years Ago, As Everyone Knows, That Novel-writing Was The Lowest Species Of Literary Exertion, And That Novel Reading Was A Dangerous Luxury And An Utter Waste Of Time.

Our Words Are Giants When They Do Us An Injury, And Dwarfs When They Do Us A Service.

My Business In Life Is To Eat, Drink, Sleep, And Die. Everything Else Is Superfluity And I Will Have None Of It.