Murder was so trivial in the stories Harold loved. Dead bodies were plot points, puzzles to be reasoned out. They weren’t brothers. Plot points didn’t leave behind grieving sisters who couldn’t find their shoes.

I understand we’ll be attending your friend Miss Worthington’s Christmas ball. Perhaps I’ll find a suitable– which is to say wealthy– wife among the ladies attending.”And perhaps they will run screaming for the convent.

Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Felicity and Ann hunched over their ornaments as if they were fascinating relics from an archaeological dig. I note that their shoulders are trembling, and...

In each of us lie good and bad, light and dark, art and pain, choice and regret, cruelty and sacrifice. We’re each of us our own chiaroscuro, our own bit of illusion fighting to emerge...

Doyle: “What is it now, then?”Cordelia: “Isn’t java supposed to be a coffee?”Doyle: “Ready to abandon the the Web project?”Cordelia: “No way. We have a chance here to make contact with the millions of people...

You’re not hurt, Watson? For God’s sake, say that you are not hurt!”It was worth a wound — it was worth many wounds — to know the depth of loyalty and love which lay behind...

It’s quite exciting,” said Sherlock Holmes, with a yawn.

When one tries to rise above Nature one is liable to fall below it. The highest type of man may revert to the animal if he leaves the straight road of destiny.

And he has guns and dogs that would make the Hound of Baskervilles seem like a bleeding Pekinese.