It Is A Mistake To Confound Strangeness

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.

The Good Watson Had At That Time Deserted Me For A Wife, The Only Selfish Action I Can Recall In Our Association. I Was Alone.

Goresthorpe Grange Is A Feudal Mansion - Or So It Was Termed In The Advertisement Which Originally Brought It Under My Notice. Its Right To This Adjective Had A Most Remarkable Effect Upon Its Price, And The Advantages Gained May Possibly Be More Sentimental Than Real. Still, It Is Soothing To Me To Know That I Have Slits In My Staircase Through Which I Can Discharge Arrows; And There Is A Sense Of Power In The Fact Of Possessing A Complicated Apparatus By Means Of Which I Am Enabled To Pour Molten Lead Upon The Head Of The Casual Visitor.

We Must Look For Consistency. Where There Is A Want Of It We Must Suspect Deception.

It Is Only Goodness Which Gives Extras, And So I Say Again That We Have Much To Hope From The Flowers.