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Mr. Sherlock Holmes, who was usually very late in the mornings, save upon those not infrequent occasions when he was up all night, was seated at the breakfast table.
It may be that you are not yourself luminous, but you are a conductor of light. Some people without possessing genius have a remarkable power of stimulating it.
“I observe from your forefinger that you make your own cigarettes. Have no hesitation in lighting one.”
I knew that seclusion and solitude were very necessary for my friend in those hours of intense mental concentration during which he weighed every particle of evidence, constructed alternative theories, balanced one against the other, and made up his mind as to which points were essential and which immaterial.
“The world is full of obvious things which nobody by any chance ever observes.
“There go two of my threads, Watson. There is nothing more stimulating than a case where everything goes against you.
To all the world he was the man of violence, half animal and half demon; but to her he always remained the little wilful boy of her own girlhood, the child who had clung to her hand. Evil indeed is the man who has not one woman to mourn him.
“Are you armed, Lestrade?” The little detective smiled. “As long as I have my trousers I have a hip-pocket, and as long as I have my hip-pocket I have something in it.”
Never in the delirious dream of a disordered brain could anything more savage, more appalling, more hellish be conceived than that dark form and savage face which broke upon us out of the wall of fog.
