This Looks Like One Of Those Unwelcome

Life, My Dear Watson, Is Infinitely Stranger Than Fiction; Stranger Than Anything Which The Mind Of Man Could Invent. We Could Not Conceive The Things That Are Merely Commonplace To Existence. If We Could Hover Over This Great City, Remove The Roofs, And Peep In At The Things Going On, It Would Make All Fiction, With Its Conventionalities And Foreseen Conclusions Flat, Stale And Unprofitable.

Crime Is Common. Logic Is Rare. Therefore It Is Upon The Logic Rather Than Upon The Crime That You Should Dwell.

I Have Seen Too Much Not To Know That The Impression Of A Woman May Be More Valuable Than The Conclusion Of An Analytical Reasoner.

In The Year 1878 I Took My Degree Of Doctor Of Medicine Of The University Of London, And Proceeded To Netley To Go Through The Course Prescribed For Surgeons In The Army. Having Completed My Studies There, I Was Duly Attached To The Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers As Assistant Surgeon.

It Was An Ideal Spring Day, A Light Blue Sky, Flecked With Little Fleecy White Clouds Drifting Across From West To East. The Sun Was Shining Very Brightly, And Yet There Was An Exhilarating Nip In The Air, Which Set An Edge To A Man's Energy.