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P. G. WODEHOUSE Copyright © 2002 All Rights Reserved World Wide. World eBook Library, Public Access Collection. - To download the PDF version of this document become a member of the World eBook Library Consortia and gain unlimited access to the enhanced PDF eBook Collection. Membership to the World eBook Library Consortia is only $8.95 per year. Your $8.95 helps to support a variety of global literacy programs. 60,000 PDF eBooks and PDF eDocuments in 104 languages have been optimized for text to speak. Let your computer read to you. Join now and gain access to the world's largest PDF eBook Collection (60,000+ and growing daily). To join visit I. II. Proofing by Dagny and the Blandings Group I. My family are a great anxiety to me. Sometimes when Saunders is doing my hair — it's been up for ages — nearly six months — I look in the glass, and wonder why it's not grey — the hair, I mean. There is my brother Bob, for instance. He's much better, now, of course, for I have worked very hard on him; but when he first went to Oxford he was dreadful. He required the very firmest treatment on my part. And even father, when my eye is not on him. . . There was that business of the right-of-way for example. It happened the summer before I put my hair up. I had been away for a visit to Aunt Flora. She is one of my muddling aunts, not nearly so nice as Aunt Edith, but, on the other hand, not perfectly awful like Aunt Elizabeth. I was glad to get back. The motor was waiting for me at the station. I sat in front instead of in the tonneau, because I wanted to talk to Phillipps, the chauffeur. He always tells me what has been happening while I have been away, and what the butler thinks about it. To-day he started about old Joe Gossett. Joe is an old man who earns a little by winding up some of the big clocks in the village — the church clock, the one over the stables at home, and one or two more. At least, he's supposed to; but he often forgets, and then the clocks stop, and there's rather a fuss. I like Joe. He is a friend of mine. We have long talks about pigs. He loves talking about pigs. He has two of his own, and they are like sons to him. I have known him talk for three-quarters of an hour about them. "Old Joe," said Phillipps, "he forgot to wind up the stable clock again. He's careless, Miss." I said: "Poor Joe! Was father cross?" Phillipps chuckled. He is the only chauffeur I have met who ever does chuckle. "Ah!" he said. "You're right, miss. Old Joe, he's always talking about his blessed pigs, till he forgets there's anything except them in the world." Phillipps let the car go a mile before he said anything else. He's like that. He turns himself off like a tap. He started again quite suddenly.
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