The clerk had finished writing the ticket, and was pressing labels and a pink paper on him. The paper, he gathered dully, was a form and had to be filled up. He examined it, and found it to be a searching document. Some of its questions could be answered off-hand, others required thought.
“Height?” Simple. Five foot eleven.
“Hair?” Simple. Brown.
“Eyes?” Simple again. Blue.
Next, queries of a more offensive kind.
“Are you a polygamist?”
He could answer that. Decidedly no. One wife would be ample—provided she had red-gold hair, brown-gold eyes, the right kind of mouth, and a dimple. Whatever doubts there might be in his mind on other points, on that one he had none whatever.
“Have you ever been in prison?” Not yet.
And then a very difficult one. “Are you a lunatic?”
Jimmy hesitated. The ink dried on his pen. He was wondering.
— P. G. Wodehouse,
Piccadilly Jim (p. 62)