But love is an emotional thing, and whatever is emotional is opposed to that true cold reason which I place above all things.

I am a brain, Watson. The rest of me is a mere appendix.

The setting is a worthy one, if the devil did desire to have a hand in the affairs of men.

A sandwich and a cup of coffee, and then off to violin-land, where all is sweetness and delicacy and harmony.

Man, or at least criminal man, has lost all enterprise and originality. As to my own little practice, it seems to be degenerating into an agency for recovering lost lead pencils and giving advice to young ladies from boarding-schools.

Should I ever marry, Watson, I should hope to inspire my wife with some feeling which would prevent her from being walked off by a housekeeper when my corpse was lying within a few yards of her.

Violence does, in truth, recoil upon the violent, and the schemer falls into the pit which he digs for another.