One Must Wait Till It Comes.

No Man Burdens His Mind With Small Matters Unless He Has Some Very Good Reason For Doing So.

I Cannot Live Without Brainwork. What Else Is There To Live For? Stand At The Window Here. Was Ever Such A Dreary, Dismal, Unprofitable World? See How The Yellow Fog Swirls Down The Street And Drifts Across The Duncoloured Houses. What Could Be More Hopelessly Prosaic And Material?

It Is, I Admit, Mere Imagination; But How Often Is Imagination The Mother Of Truth?

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. I Stood Upon The Hearth-rug And Picked Up The Stick Which Our Visitor Had Left Behind Him The Night Before.

He Foresaw That She Would Be Very Much More Useful To Him In The Character Of A Free Woman.