You Have A Grand Gift For Silence,

Life, My Dear Watson, Is Infinitely Stranger Than Fiction; Stranger Than Anything Which The Mind Of Man Could Invent. We Could Not Conceive The Things That Are Merely Commonplace To Existence. If We Could Hover Over This Great City, Remove The Roofs, And Peep In At The Things Going On, It Would Make All Fiction, With Its Conventionalities And Foreseen Conclusions Flat, Stale And Unprofitable.

My Life Is Spent In One Long Effort To Escape From The Commonplaces Of Existence. These Little Problems Help Me To Do So.

Why Should People Ever Take Credit For Charity When They Must Know That They Cannot Gain As Much Pleasure Out Of Their Guineas In Any Other Fashion?

You Know How Easily And Suddenly These Things Happen, Beginning In Playful Teasing And Ending In Something A Little Warmer Than Friendship. You Squeeze The Slender Arm Which Is Passed Through Yours, You Venture To Take The Little Gloved Hand, You Say Good Night At Absurd Length In The Shadow Of The Door. It Is Innocent And Very Interesting, Love Trying His Wings In A First Little Flutter.

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.