Explore "Jeeves and the Impending Doom" by P. G. Wodehouse on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
It was the morning of the day on which I was slated to pop down to my Aunt Agatha's place at Woollam Chersey in the county of Herts for a visit of three solid weeks; and, as I seated myself at the breakfast table, I don't mind confessing that the heart was singularly heavy. We Woosters are men of iron, but beneath my intrepid exterior at that moment there lurked a nameless dread.
"Jeeves," I said, "I am not the old merry self this morning. "