There's No Police Like Holmes.

His Heart Danced Upon Her Movements Like A Cork Upon A Tide. He Heard What Her Eyes Said To Him From Beneath Their Cowl And Knew That In Some Dim Past, Whether In Life Or Revery, He Had Heard Their Tale Before.

Deal With Him, Hemingway!

The Demand That I Make Of My Reader Is That He Should Devote His Whole Life To Reading My Works.

Phall If You But Will, Rise You Must: And None So Soon Either Shall The Pharce For The Nunce Come To A Setdown Secular Phoenish.

Imagine Some Foul And Putrid Corpse That Has Lain Rotting And Decomposing In The Grave, A Jelly-like Mass Of Liquid Corruption. Imagine Such A Corpse A Prey To Flames, Devoured By The Fire Of Burning Brimstone And Giving Off Dense Choking Fumes Of Nauseous Loathsome Decomposition. And Then Imagine This Sickening Stench, Multiplied A Millionfold And A Millionfold Again From The Millions Upon Millions Of Fetid Carcasses Massed Together In The Reeking Darkness, A Huge And Rotting Human Fungus. Imagine All This, And You Will Have Some Idea Of The Horror Of The Stench Of Hell.