He had that feeling, which comes to all quiet men who like to sit at home and read, that this was the sort of atmosphere in which he really belonged. The brightness of it all - the dazzling lights, the music, the hubbub, in which the deep-throated gurgle of the wine-agent surprised when drinking soup blended with the shriller note of the chorus-girl calling to her mate - these things got Henry. He was thirty-six next birthday, but he felt a youngish twenty-one.
- P.G. Wodehouse, "The Man With Two Left Feet," p.242 in The Man With Two Left Feet
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