What A Lovely Thing A Rose Is!

Well, I'm A Bacteriologist, You Know. I Live In A Nine-hundred-diameter Microscope. I Can Hardly Claim To Take Serious Notice Of Anything That I Can See With My Naked Eye.

'men Die Of The Diseases Which They Have Studied Most,' Remarked The Surgeon, Snipping Off The End Of A Cigar With All His Professional Neatness And Finish. 'it's As If The Morbid Condition Was An Evil Creature Which, When It Found Itself Closely Hunted, Flew At The Throat Of Its Pursuer. If You Worry The Microbes Too Much They May Worry You. I've Seen Cases Of It, And Not Necessarily In Microbic Diseases Either. There Was, Of Course, The Well-known Instance Of Liston And The Aneurism; And A Dozen Others That I Could Mention.'

He [professor Moriarty] Is The Napoleon Of Crime, Watson. He Is The Organizer Of Half That Is Evil And Of Nearly All That Is Undetected In This Great City. He Is A Genius, A Philosopher, An Abstract Thinker. He Has A Brain Of The First Order.

His Love Of Danger, His Intense Appreciation Of The Drama Of An Adventure--all The More Intense For Being Held Tightly In--his Consistent View That Every Peril In Life Is A Form Of Sport, A Fierce Game Betwixt You And Fate, With Death As A Forfeit, Made Him A Wonderful Companion At Such Hours.

There Was Something Awesome In The Thought Of The Solitary Mortal Standing By The Open Window And Summoning In From The Gloom Outside The Spirits Of The Nether World.