Explore "Leave It to Psmith" by P. G. Wodehouse on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
At about the hour when Lord Emsworth's train, whirling him and his son Freddie to London, had reached the halfway point in its journey, a very tall, very thin, very solemn young man, gleaming in a speckless top hat and a morning-coat of irreproachable fit, mounted the steps of Number Eighteen, Wallingford Street, West Kensington, and rang the front-door bell. This done, he removed the hat; and having touched his forehead lightly with a silk handkerchief, for the afternoon sun was warm, gazed about him with a grave distaste.
"A scaly neighbourhood! " he murmured.