The door of the Drones Club swung open, and a young man in form-fitting tweeds came down the steps and started to walk westwards. An observant passer-by, scanning his face, would have fancied that he discerned on it a keen, tense look, like that of an African hunter stalking a hippopotamus. And he would have been right. Pongo Twistleton - for it was he - was on his way to try to touch Horrace Pendlebury-Davenport for two hundred pounds.
-P. G. Wodehouse, Uncle Fred in the Springtime
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