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By the eighth page I was emitting a stricken woofle like a bulldog that has been denied cake.

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This scathing review confirms all my priors about this project. Perhaps I’m being unreasonable, but I’m equal parts depressed and enraged by this book’s existence. I don’t know who constitutes “The Wodehouse Estate” (he had no children) but they ought to resign immediately.  My first impulse was to call Faulks a string of glorious Wodehouseian insults, but that’s far too good for him.

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