You see, the trouble with Florence was that though, as I have stated, indubitably comely and well equipped to take office as a pinup girl, she was, as I have also stressed, intellectual to the core, and the ordinary sort of bloke like myself does well to give this type of female as wide a miss as he can manage.
You know how it is with these earnest, brainy beazels of what is called strong character. They can’t let the male soul alone. The want to get behind it and start shoving. Scarcely have they shaken the rice from their hair in the car driving off for the honeymoon than they pull up their socks and begin molding the partner of joys and sorrows, and if there is one thing that gives me the pip, it is being molded. Despite adverse criticism from many quarters—the name of my Aunt Agatha is one that springs to the lips—I like B. Wooster the way he is. Lay off him, I say. Don’t try to change him, or you may lose the flavour.
Even when we were merely affianced, I recalled, this woman had dashed the mystery thriller from my hand, instructing me to read instead a perfectly frightful thing by a bird called Tolstoi. At the thought of what horrors might ensue after the clergyman had done his stuff and she had a legal right to bring my gray hairs in sorrow to the grave, the imagination boggled.
—P.G. Wodehouse, Jeeves and the Feudal Spirit