We must look for consistency. Where there is a want of it we must suspect deception.

There is no scent so pleasant to my nostrils as that faint, subtle reek which comes from an ancient book.

Violence recoils on the violent.

You never tire of the moor. You cannot think the wonderful secrets which it contains. It is so vast, and so barren, and so mysterious.

Anything seems commonplace, once explained.

It is, I admit, mere imagination; but how often is imagination the mother of truth?

Let us hear the suspicions. I will look after the proofs.