So far I had been miraculously lucky.

The milkman, the literary innkeeper, Sir Harry, the roadman, and the idiotic Marmie, were all pieces of undeserved good fortune.

Somehow the first success gave me a feeling that I was going to pull the thing through.
My chief trouble was that I was desperately hungry.

When a Jew shoots himself in the City and there is an inquest, the newspapers usually report that the deceased was 'well-nourished'.

I remember thinking that they would not call me well-nourished if I broke my neck in a bog-hole.