Old Mr. Howard Saxby was seated at his desk in his room at the Edgar Saxby Literary Agency when Cosmo arrived there. He was knitting a sock. He knitted a good deal, he would tell you if you asked him, to keep hiself from smoking, adding that he also smoked a good deal to keep himself from knitting. He was a long, thin gentleman in his middle seventies with a faraway, unseeing look in his eye, not unlike that which a dead halibut on a fishmonger's slab gives the pedestrian as he passes.
(from Cocktail Time by Sir Pelham Wodehouse)
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