He Burst Into One Of His Rare

It Is, I Admit, Mere Imagination; But How Often Is Imagination The Mother Of Truth?

There Is But One Step From The Grotesque To The Horrible.

His Neighbor Is A Tooth-drawer. That Bag At His Girdle Is Full Of The Teeth That He Drew At Winchester Fair. I Warrant That There Are More Sound Ones Than Sorry, For He Is Quick At His Work And A Trifle Dim In The Eye.

...it Was A Huge Creature, Luminous, Ghastly, And Spectral. I Have Cross-examined These Men, One Of Them A Hard-headed Countryman, One A Farrier, And One A Moorland Farmer, Who All Tell The Same Story Of This Dreadful Apparition, Exactly Corresponding To The Hell-hound Of The Legend. I Assure You That There Is A Reign Of Terror In The District, And That It Is A Hardy Man Who Will Cross The Moor At Night.

Sherlock Holmes Took His Bottle From The Corner Of The Mantel-piece, And His Hypodermic Syringe From Its Neat Morocco Case. With His Long, White, Nervous Fingers He Adjusted The Delicate Needle, And Rolled Back His Left Shirt-cuff. For Some Little Time His Eyes Rested Thoughtfully Upon The Sinewy Forearm And Wrist, All Dotted And Scarred With Innumerable Puncture-marks. Finally, He Thrust The Sharp Point Home, Pressed Down The Tiny Piston, And Sank Back Into The Velvet-lined Armchair With A Long Sigh Of Satisfaction.