I have heard, Mr. Holmes, that you can see deeply into the manifold wickedness of the human heart.

The world is big enough for us. No ghosts need apply.

The great bell of Beaulieu was ringing. Far away through the forest might be heard its musical clangor and swell.

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

Clouds of insects danced and buzzed in the golden autumn light, and the air was full of the piping of the song-birds. Long, glinting dragonflies shot across the path, or hung tremulous with gauzy wings and gleaming bodies.

He burst into one of his rare fits of laughter as he turned away from the picture. I have not heard him laugh often, and it has always boded ill to somebody.

Work is the best antidote to sorrow, my dear Watson.