Psmith Journalist

Psmith Journalist

P. G. Wodehouse

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The sunshine of a fair Spring morning fell graciously on London town. Out in Piccadilly its heartening warmth seemed to infuse into traffic and pedestrians alike a novel jauntiness, so that bus drivers jested and even the lips of chauffeurs uncurled into not unkindly smiles. Policemen whistled at their posts-clerks, on their way to work; beggars approached the task of trying to persuade perfect strangers to bear the burden of their maintenance with that optimistic vim which makes all the difference. It was one of those happy mornings. At nine o'clock precisely the door of Number Seven Arundell Street, Leicester Square, opened and a young man stepped out.

Psmith Journalist Preface

THE conditions of life in New York are so different from those of London that a story of this kind calls for a little explanation. There are several million inhabitants of New York. Not all of them eke out a precarious livelihood by murdering one another, but there is a definite section of the population which murders--not casually, on the spur of the moment, but on definitely commercial lines at so many dollars per murder. The "gangs" of New York exist in fact. I have not invented them. Most of the incidents in this story are based on actual happenings.

The Rosenthal case, where four men, headed by a genial individual calling himself "Gyp the Blood" shot a fellow-citizen in cold blood in a spot as public and fashionable as Piccadilly Circus and escaped in a motor-car, made such a stir a few years ago that the noise of it was heard all over the world and not, as is generally the case with the doings of the gangs, in New York only. Rosenthal cases on a smaller and less sensational scale are frequent occurrences on Manhattan Island. It was the prominence of the victim rather than the unusual nature of the occurrence that excited the New York press. Most gang victims get a quarter of a column in small type.

P. G. WODEHOUSE New York, 1915

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I Slapped My Fiancé-Then Married His Billionaire Nemesis

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Jessica C. Dolan
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Being second best is practically in my DNA. My sister got the love, the attention, the spotlight. And now, even her damn fiancé. Technically, Rhys Granger was my fiancé now-billionaire, devastatingly hot, and a walking Wall Street wet dream. My parents shoved me into the engagement after Catherine disappeared, and honestly? I didn't mind. I'd crushed on Rhys for years. This was my chance, right? My turn to be the chosen one? Wrong. One night, he slapped me. Over a mug. A stupid, chipped, ugly mug my sister gave him years ago. That's when it hit me-he didn't love me. He didn't even see me. I was just a warm-bodied placeholder for the woman he actually wanted. And apparently, I wasn't even worth as much as a glorified coffee cup. So I slapped him right back, dumped his ass, and prepared for disaster-my parents losing their minds, Rhys throwing a billionaire tantrum, his terrifying family plotting my untimely demise. Obviously, I needed alcohol. A lot of alcohol. Enter him. Tall, dangerous, unfairly hot. The kind of man who makes you want to sin just by existing. I'd met him only once before, and that night, he just happened to be at the same bar as my drunk, self-pitying self. So I did the only logical thing: I dragged him into a hotel room and ripped off his clothes. It was reckless. It was stupid. It was completely ill-advised. But it was also: Best. Sex. Of. My. Life. And, as it turned out, the best decision I'd ever made. Because my one-night stand isn't just some random guy. He's richer than Rhys, more powerful than my entire family, and definitely more dangerous than I should be playing with. And now, he's not letting me go.

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“The sunshine of a fair Spring morning fell graciously on London town. Out in Piccadilly its heartening warmth seemed to infuse into traffic and pedestrians alike a novel jauntiness, so that bus drivers jested and even the lips of chauffeurs uncurled into not unkindly smiles. Policemen whistled at their posts-clerks, on their way to work; beggars approached the task of trying to persuade perfect strangers to bear the burden of their maintenance with that optimistic vim which makes all the difference. It was one of those happy mornings. At nine o'clock precisely the door of Number Seven Arundell Street, Leicester Square, opened and a young man stepped out.”
1

Preface

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Chapter 1 Cosy Moments

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Chapter 2 Billy Windsor

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Chapter 3 At The Gardenia

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Chapter 4 Bat Jarvis

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Chapter 5 Planning Improvements

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Chapter 6 The Tenements

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Chapter 7 Visitors At The Office

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Chapter 8 The Honeyed Word

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Chapter 9 Full Steam Ahead

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Chapter 10 Going Some

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Chapter 11 The Man At The Astor

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Chapter 12 A Red Taximeter

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Chapter 13 Reviewing The Situation

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Chapter 14 The Highfield

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Chapter 15 An Addition To The Staff

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Chapter 16 The First Battle

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Chapter 17 Guerilla Warfare

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Chapter 18 An Episode By The Way

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Chapter 19 In Pleasant Street

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Chapter 20 Cornered

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Chapter 21 The Battle Of Pleasant Street

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Chapter 22 Concerning Mr. Waring

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Chapter 23 Reductions In The Staff

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Chapter 24 A Gathering Of Cat-Specialists

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Chapter 25 Trapped

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Chapter 26 A Friend In Need

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Chapter 27 Psmith Concludes His Ride

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Chapter 28 Standing Room Only

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Chapter 29 The Knock-Out For Mr. Waring

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