Evidently his late uncle hadn't been just an ordinary small-town grocer, weighing out potted meats and raisins to a public that had to watch the pennies, but something on a much more impressive scale. I learned later that he had owned a chain of shops, one of them as far afield as Birmingham, and why the ass had gone and left his money to a chap like Bingley is more than I can tell you, though the probability is that Bingley, before bumping off with some little-known Asiatic poison, had taken the precaution of forging the will.
(from Jeeves and the Tie That Binds, by Sir Pelham Wodehouse)
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