Pongo Twistleton paces the floor

As Pongo paced the floor, from time to time quivering all over like a Brazilian explorer with a touch of malaria, he was still in faultless evening dress, for the idea of going to bed on this night of fear had not even occurred to him. A young man visiting the parents of the girl he loves, and knowing that at one sharp an uncle of the maximum eccentricity will be starting to burglar the house, does not hop between the sheets at eleven-fifteen and sink into a dreamless sleep. He stays up and shudders. Pongo had made one or two attempts to divert his thoughts by reading Murder In The Fog, but without success. There are moments when even the most faceless of fiends cannot hope to grip.

(from Uncle Dynamite, by Sir Pelham Wodehouse)