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Leamos un fragmento en original:
Cooled by the shade of the cedar, refreshed by the contents of the amber glass in which ice tinkled so musically when he lifted it to his lips, the Honorable Galahad, at the moment of Lord Emsworth's arrival, had achieved a Nirvana-like repose.
Storms might be raging elsewhere in the grounds of Blandings Castle, but here on the lawn there was peace,--the perfect, unruffled peace which in this world seems to come only to those who have done nothing whatever to deserve it.
The Honorable Galahad Threepwood, in his fifty-seventh year, was a dapper little gentleman on whose grey but still thickly covered head the weight of a consistently misspent life rested lightly. His flannel suit sat jauntily upon his wiry frame, a black-rimmed monocle gleamed jauntily in his eye.
Everything about this Musketeer of the 'nineties was jaunty. It was a standing mystery to all who knew him that one who had such an extraordinary good time all his life should, in the evening of that life, be so superbly robust.
Wan contemporaries who had once painted a gas-lit London red in his company, and were now doomed to an existence of dry toast, Vichy watery and German cure-resorts felt very strongly on this point. A man of his antecedents, they considered, ought by rights to be rounding off his career in a bath-chair instead of flitting about the place, still chaffing head waiters as of old and calling for the wine list without a tremor......
Ir a la biografía de P. G. Wodehouse
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