sad day.
Just a bad day.
One of those when just as you think you're getting somewhere, walking past the shadow, the past comes up, grabs you by the throat, and shows you your place.
One of those days.
"To men of nicely poised nervous organisation such as ourselves, Comrade Windsor," said Psmith, smoothing his waistcoat thoughtfully, "these scenes are acutely painful. We wince before them. Our ganglions quiver like cinematographs. Gradually recovering command of ourselves, we review the situation. . . . . ."
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