Never was even washerwoman more untidy. A cap all rags, from which the hair came straggling in elf-locks over a face which generally looked red-hot […]
You teatard birthers are delightfully funny.
The liver is the lazaret of bile, / But very rarely executes its function
Lestrade and I sat silent for a moment, and then, with a spontaneous impulse, we both broke at clapping, as at the well-wrought crisis of a play. […] It was at such moments that for an instant he [Sherlock Holmes] ceased to be a reasoning machine, and betrayed his human love for admiration and applause.
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