Everything Comes In Circles. [...] The Old

But Love Is An Emotional Thing, And Whatever Is Emotional Is Opposed To That True Cold Reason Which I Place Above All Things.

'men Die Of The Diseases Which They Have Studied Most,' Remarked The Surgeon, Snipping Off The End Of A Cigar With All His Professional Neatness And Finish. 'it's As If The Morbid Condition Was An Evil Creature Which, When It Found Itself Closely Hunted, Flew At The Throat Of Its Pursuer. If You Worry The Microbes Too Much They May Worry You. I've Seen Cases Of It, And Not Necessarily In Microbic Diseases Either. There Was, Of Course, The Well-known Instance Of Liston And The Aneurism; And A Dozen Others That I Could Mention.'

Let Us Hear The Suspicions. I Will Look After The Proofs.

Strange Indeed Is Human Nature. Here Were These Men, To Whom Murder Was Familiar, Who Again And Again Had Struck Down The Father Of The Family, Some Man Against Whom They Had No Personal Feeling, Without One Thought Of Compunction Or Of Compassion For His Weeping Wife Or Helpless Children, And Yet The Tender Or Pathetic In Music Could Move Them To Tears.

He [professor Moriarty] Is The Napoleon Of Crime, Watson. He Is The Organizer Of Half That Is Evil And Of Nearly All That Is Undetected In This Great City. He Is A Genius, A Philosopher, An Abstract Thinker. He Has A Brain Of The First Order.