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 … - P. G. Wodehouse

[Hemmingway] seemed disposed to conversation. "A lot of wasps there are about this summer," he said. "One sang right past my ear just then."
--"I wish it had bitten you," said Poskitt.
"Wasps," replied Hemmingway, who had dabbled in natural history, "do not bite. They sting. You are thinking of snakes."
--"Your society would make anyone think of snakes."
"Gentlemen," I said. "Gentlemen!"

He wore the unmistakable look of a man about to be present at a row between women, and only a wet cat in a strange backyard bears itself with less jauntiness than a man faced by such a prospect.

Aunt Agatha, who eats broken bottles and wears barbed wire next to the skin.