I was astounded at my keeness of perception. The moment I had set eyes on Spode, if you remember, I had said to myself, "What ho! A Dictator," and a Dictator he had proved to be. I couldn't have made a better shot if I had been one of those detectives who see a chap walking along the street and deduce that he is a retired manufacturer of poppet valves named Robinson with rheumatism in one arm, living in Clapham
(from The Code of the Woosters, by Sir Pelham Wodehouse)
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