Still, It Is An Error To Argue

Beyond The Obvious Facts That He Has At Some Time Done Manual Labour, That He Takes Snuff, That He Is A Freemason, That He Has Been In China, And That He Has Done A Considerable Amount Of Writing Lately, I Can Deduce Nothing Else.

It Is Decreed By A Merciful Nature That The Human Brain Cannot Think Of Two Things Simultaneously . . .

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.

It Is Fortunate For This Community That I Am Not A Criminal.

You Are My Heart, My Life, My One And Only Thought.