I Could Not Rest, Watson, I Could

The Great Bell Of Beaulieu Was Ringing. Far Away Through The Forest Might Be Heard Its Musical Clangor And Swell.

The More Featureless And Commonplace A Crime Is, The More Difficult It Is To Bring It Home.

I Get In The Dumps At Times, And Don't Open My Mouth For Days On End. You Must Not Think I Am Sulky When I Do That. Just Let Me Alone, And I'll Soon Be Right.

The Ways Of Fate Are Indeed Hard To Understand. If There Is Not Some Compensation Hereafter, Then The World Is A Cruel Jest.

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?