It would be idle to pretend that, as I made my way down the stairs, I was my usual debonair self. The feet cold, and if there had been any sudden noises, I would have started at them. My meditations on Aunt Dahlia, who had let me in for this horror in the night, were rather markedly lacking in a nephew's love. Indeed, it is not too much to say that every step I took deepened my conviction that what the aged relative needed was a swift kick in the pants.
(from "Jeeves Makes an Omelette," by Sir Pelham Wodehouse)
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