Like All Holmes' Reasoning, The Thing Seemed

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.

His Sanguine Spirit Turns Every Firefly Into A Star.

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.

Depend Upon It, There Is Nothing So Unnatural As The Commonplace.

Heaven, Too, Was Very Near To Them In Those Days. God's Direct Agency Was To Be Seen In The Thunder And The Rainbow, The Whirlwind And The Lightning. To The Believer, Clouds Of Angels And Confessors, And Martyrs, Armies Of The Sainted And The Saved, Were Ever Stooping Over Their Struggling Brethren Upon Earth, Raising, Encouraging, And Supporting Them.