I say, Jeeves, have I been talking a lot of bally rot, recently?
I had not noticed any perceptible difference in your quotidian discourse, sir.
But, really, you know, I sense a strangeness in the old ambience.
Ah, in that case, sir, we may perhaps blame the readers of a leading weekly.
I say, dash it, why?
They have been set the task of anticipating Mr Faulks in his editing of your memoirs, sir.
What a fearful cheek! So the air is abuzz with blighters sticking their oars in, eh?
I think I perceive your meaning, sir,
Any idea who these scribbling merchants might be, Jeeves?
I believe the chief source of your discomfort, sir, is the notorious Whitworth-Allgar-Simmers syndicate.
Good Lord, Jeeves! Anything we can do?
Well, sir, as it is my afternoon off, I will go round and have a word with my Aunt Lucy . . .
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