Holmes On Homes Quotes

Where we love is home, home that our feet may leave, but not our hearts.

From the first day I met her, she was the only woman to me. Every day of that voyage I loved her more, and many a time since have I kneeled down in the darkness of the night watch and kissed the deck of that ship because I knew her dear feet had trod it. She was never engaged to me. She treated me as fairly as ever a woman treated a man. I have no complaint to make. It was all love on my side, and all good comradeship and friendship on hers. When we parted she was a free woman, but I could never again be a free man.

You have my implicit forgiveness, you know, even when you’re driving me crazy.” . . . “Jamie.” “Charlotte.” “Do come home soon. It won’t be London without you.” “You never knew me in London.” “I know. I intend to fix that.

I have always held, too, that pistol practice should be distinctly an open-air pastime; and when Homes, in one of his queer humours, would sit in an armchair with his hair-trigger and a hundred Boxer cartridges and proceed to adorn the opposite wall with a patriotic V.R. done in bullet pocks, I felt strongly that neither the atmosphere nor the appearance of our room was improved by it.

Samuel Vimes dreamed about Clues. He had a jaundiced view of Clues. He instinctively distrusted them. They got in the way. And he distrusted the kind of person who’d take one look at another man and say in a lordly voice to his companion, “Ah, my dear sir, I can tell you nothing except that he is a left-handed stonemason who has spent some years in the merchant navy and has recently fallen on hard times,” and then unroll a lot of supercilious commentary about calluses and stance and the state of a man’s boots, when exactly the same comments could apply to a man who was wearing his old clothes because he’d been doing a spot of home bricklaying for a new barbecue pit, and had been tattooed once when he was drunk and seventeen* and in fact got seasick on a wet pavement. What arrogance! What an insult to the rich and chaotic variety of the human experience!

At Christmas, all roads lead home.

I love Sherlock Holmes. I've got all his books, leather-bound. What I thought was great about Sherlock Holmes was that not only was he a supersleuth, he was also a hard worker. Not only did he go out and solve the crimes, he came home and wrote it all down. Fantastic. That's why I admire him.

It appears that I am willing to put with many things for the sake of Jamie Watson . . . I can tell he’s hiding a laugh when he curls his mouth in like he’s eating a lemon. Sometimes I say terrible things just to see him do it . . . He flagellates himself rather a lot, as this narrative shows. He shouldn’t. He is lovely and warm and quite brave and a bit heedless of his own safety and by any measure the best man I’ve ever known. I’ve discovered that I am very clever when it comes to caring about him, and so I will continue to do so. Later today I will ask him to spend the rest of winter break at my family’s home in Sussex . . . Watson will say yes, I’m sure of it. He always says yes to me. – Charlotte

What is it with folks always talking about where they’re from? You could grow up in a muddy ditch, but if it’s your muddy ditch, then it’s gotta be the swellest muddy ditch ever.

What do you think of this, Holmes? Sholto was, on his own confession, with his brother last night. The brother died in a fit, on which Sholto walked off with the treasure? How's that?" "On which the dead man very considerately got up and locked the door on the inside.

Instead, for luck, he asked them for 26, because Evvie’s address was 26 Bancroft Street. When he got home and he showed the shirt to Evvie, she said, “Hey, look. That’s my house number. Maybe it’s lucky.” He’d folded it up, saying, “Maybe.

Holmes is depressed. Poirot is vain. Miss Marple is brusque and eccentric. They don’t have to be attractive. Look at Nero Wolfe who was so fat that he couldn’t even leave his New York home and had to have a custom-made chair to support his weight!

In the darkest corner of a darkened room, all Sherlock Homes stories begin. In the pregnant dim of gaslight and smoke, Holmes would sit, digesting the day's papers, puffing on his long pipe, injecting himself with cocaine. He would pop smoke rings into the gloom, waiting for something, anything, to pierce into the belly of his study and release the promise of adventure; of clues to interpret; of, at last he would plead, a puzzle he could not solve. And after each story he would return here, into the dark room, and die day by day of boredom. The darkness of his study was his cage, but also the womb of his genius.

I felt instantly at home, and wanted only to dismiss Alistair, along with the rest of Justice Hall, that I might have a closer look at the shelves.I had to content myself instead with a strolling perusal, my hands locked behind my back to keep them from reaching out for Le Morte D'Arthur, Caxton 1485 or the delicious little red-and-gilt Bestiary, MS Circa 1250 or.... If I took one down, I should be lost. So I looked, like a hungry child in a sweet shop, and trailed out on my guide's heels with one longing backward glance.

I miss you too. I miss you like breathing. Have I already said that? I do, though. I miss you like naan pizza and builder’s tea. Like you’re the home I never knew I had.

People respond to authentic celebrities—or what they perceive as authentic. They are too stupid to realize that most celebrities wear one face in public and another face at home.

Where we love is home—home that our feet may leave but not our hearts. —Oliver Wendell Holmes

The longer one stays here the more does the spirit of the moor sink into one’s soul, its vastness, and also its grim charm. When you are once out upon its bosom you have left all traces of modern England behind you, but on the other hand you are conscious everywhere of the homes and the work of prehistoric people. On all sides of you as you walk are the houses of these forgotten folk, with their graves and the huge monoliths which are supposed to have marked their temples. As you look at their grey stone huts against the scarred hillsides you leave your own age behind you, and if you were to see a skin-clad, hairy man crawl out from the low door, fitting a flint-tipped arrow on to the string of his bow, you would feel that the presence there was more natural than your own. The strange thing is that they should have lived so thickly on what must always have been most unfruitful soil. I am no antiquarian, but I could imagine that they were some unwarlike and harried race who were forced to accept that which none other would occupy.

I bet it was also the triumphant Aha! and not the truth itself that had fueled all those famous literary detectives I knew not much about except their names - Philip Marlowe, Sherlock Holmes, Joe and Frank Hardy. I felt like yelling something celebratory on my way home, something like, Yeah! or Fuck, yeah! just like Marlowe would have yelled, just like the Hardys would have yelled, and maybe Holmes, too, although maybe that's why he kept Watson around; to tell Holmes to simmer down and not get too far ahead of himself.

We can’t do these things in the force, Mr. Holmes,” said he. “No wonder you get results that are beyond us. But some of these days you’ll go too far, and you’ll find yourself and your friend in trouble.” “For England, home and beauty—eh, Watson? Martyrs on the altar of our country.

Its invisibility, and the mystery which was attached to it, made this organization doubly terrible. It appeared to be omniscient and omnipotent, and yet was neither seen nor heard. The man who held out against the Church vanished away, and none knew whither he had gone or what had befallen him. His wife and his children awaited him at home, but no father ever returned to tell them how he had fared at the hands of his secret judges. A rash word or a hasty act was followed by annihilation, and yet none knew what the nature might be of this terrible power which was suspended over them. No wonder that men went about in fear and trembling, and that even in the heart of the wilderness they dared not whisper the doubts which oppressed them.

I was still a novice at the caped crusader super-sleuth thing, but it didn’t take a degree from the Sherlock Holmes Detective School to see exactly what had happened here. Alison had come home, put her lunch in the zapper, poured herself a beverage, turned on her computer and . . . vanished off the face of the earth.

Sherlock Holmes took his bottle from the corner of the mantelpiece, and his hypodermic syringe from its neat morocco case. With his long, white, nervous fingers he adjusted the delicate needle and rolled back his left shirtcuff. For some little time his eyes rested thoughtfully upon the sinewy forearm and wrist, all dotted and scarred with innumerable puncture-marks. Finally, he thrust the sharp point home, pressed down the tiny piston, and sank back into the velvet-lined armchair with a long sigh of satisfaction.

Life could get crazy, work could get busy, but coming home and being in this room . . . it makes everything disappear.

Homes

He was my home. He was the warm hearth at which I wanted to rest every day.

You don’t have to be Sherlock Holmes to read the body language that people’s homes present.

Where we love is home, Home that our feet may leave, but not our hearts. Oliver Wendell Holmes, Sr., Homesick in Heaven

Es peligroso quitar su cachorro a un tigre, y también es peligroso arrebatar a una mujer a una ilusion

...she missed home, so she called me Eveleth. I am named after my mother’s unhappiness.

I waited all day without news of him. That night, on the advice of the manager of the hotel, I communicated with the police, and next morning we advertised in all the papers. Our inquiries led to no result; and from that day to this no word has ever been heard of my unfortunate father. He came home with his heart full of hope, to find some peace, some comfort, and instead—" She put

Boswell and Thompson write, “Every night the rooms on the two upper floors of the Castle were filled to overflowing. Holmes reluctantly accommodated a few men as paying guests, but catered primarily to women—preferably young and pretty ones of apparent means, whose homes were distant from Chicago and who had no one close to them who might make inquiry if they did not soon return. Many never went home. Many, indeed, never emerged from the castle, having once entered it

Passionately encouraged by her aunt, Marie married Charles and traveled with him to his home. She was shocked to discover that [the magnificent château] Le Glandier was actually a festering pile of crumbling stone - cold, gray, grim and forbidding. Worse, it was inhabited by Charles's mother, who was also cold, gray, grim, and forbidding.

My friend had listened with amused surprise to this long speech, which was poured forth with extraordinary vigour and earnestness, every point being driven home by the slapping of a brawny hand upon the speaker’s knee. When our visitor was silent Holmes stretched out his hand and took down letter “S” of his commonplace book. For once he dug in vain into that mine of varied information.

These last weeks, since Christmas, have been odd ones. I have begun to doubt that I knew you as well as I thought. I have even wondered if you wished to keep some part of yourself hidden from me in order to preserve your privacy and your autonomy. I will understand if you refuse to give me an answer tonight, and although I freely admit I will be hurt by such a refusal, you must not allow my feelings to influence your answer." I looked up into his face. "The question I have for you, then is this: How are the fairies in your garden?" By the yellow streetlights, I saw the trepidation that had been building up in face give way to a flash of relief, then to the familiar signs of outrage: the bulging eyes, the purpling skin, the thin lips. He cleared his throat. "I am not a man much given to violence," he began, calmly enough, "but I declare that if that man Doyle came before me today, I should be hard-pressed to avoid trouncing him." The image was a pleasing one, two gentlemen on the far side of middle age, one built like a bulldog and the other like a bulldong, engaging in fisticuffs. "It is difficult enough to surmount Watson's apparently endless blather in order to have my voice heard as a scientist, but now, when people hear my name, all they will think of is that disgusting dreamy-eyed little girl and her preposterous paper cutouts. I knew the man was limited, but I did not even suspect that he was insane!" "Oh, well, Holmes," I drawled into his climbing voice. "Look on the bright side. You've complained for years how tedious it is to have everyone with a stray puppy or a stolen pencil box push through your hedges and tread on the flowers; now the British Public will assume that Sherlock Homes is as much a fairy tale as those photographs and will stop plaguing you. I'd say the man's done you a great service." I smiled brightly. For a long minute, it was uncertain whether he was going to strike me dead for my impertinence or drop dead himself of apoplexy, but then, as I had hoped, he threw back his head and laughed long and hard.

The Haven is the name of Mr. Josiah Amberley’s house,” I explained. “I think it would interest you, Holmes. It is like some penurious patrician who has sunk into the company of his inferiors. You know that particular quarter, the monotonous brick streets, the weary suburban highways. Right in the middle of them, a little island of ancient culture and comfort, lies this old home, surrounded by a high sun-baked wall mottled with lichens and topped with moss, the sort of wall—” “Cut out the poetry, Watson,” said Holmes severely. “I note that it was a high brick wall.

... If you wall a country or a civilization, you misshape it, too, as certainly as if you strangled it with bindings. You have built the wall not just outside but inside, and what you have walled up will be grotesque and stunted, whether you look at it from the moon or elsewhere.

At the next street-lamp, she sees a woman with painted lips and smudged eyes waiting in a doorway. A hansom cab drives up, stops, and a man in a tail coat and a shining silk top-hat gets out. Even though the woman in the doorway wears a low-cut evening gown that might once have belonged to a lady of the gentleman’s social class, the black-clad watcher does not think the gentleman is here to go dancing. She sees the prostitute’s haggard eyes, haunted with fear no matter how much her red-smeared lips smile. One like her was recently found dead a few streets away, slit wide open. Averting her gaze, the searcher in black walks on. An unshaven man lounging against a wall winks at her. “Missus, what yer doing all alone? Don’t yer want some company?” If he were a gentleman, he would not have spoken to her without being introduced. Ignoring him, she hastens past. She must speak to no one. She does not belong here. The knowledge does not trouble her, for she has never belonged anywhere. And in a sense she has always been alone. But her heart is not without pain as she scans the shadows, for she has no home now, she is a stranger in the world’s

And that was the last time I went back to my home church, the straw that broke the camel’s back. I was out in the world, pursuing my dream, speaking my truth, using my talents, summoning the courage to share my fears and insecurities in front of strangers to entertain them and leave them happier and feeling less alone, and this guy thought I had fallen from grace because I occasionally said dirty words? Well, fuck that. I never went back.

of nature, which I most definitely was not. “So, Enola,” asked Mycroft gruffly after a while, “are you feeling well enough to tell us what has happened?” I did so, but there was little to add to what they already knew. Mum had left home early on Tuesday morning and had not returned since. No, she had left me no message or explanation of any sort. No, there was no reason to think she might have taken ill; her health was excellent. No, there had been no word of her from anyone. No, in answer to Sherlock’s questions, there had been no bloodstains, no footprints, no signs of forced entry, and I did not know

The dog clung to my chest. Without any warning, I started to cry. Danny put his hand on my back while I sobbed. "We'll take this dog," he said to the woman. When everything was settled we got a cab and I cried all the way home. The dog at on my lap, shaking. "It's okay," I told her. "It's okay.

We must all have trials and vexations, but if one’s home is happy then the rest is comparatively nothing. I

It’s fun to home in on that incongruity

They often quoted Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s beloved Sherlock Holmes: “It is a capital mistake to theorize before one has data. Insensibly one begins to twist facts to suit theories, instead of theories to suit facts.” “Myron?

I thought if I didn’t find my home there, maybe I’d just get stabbed to death and the whole thing would be less of an issue.

He rose and walked to the windows. The moon reflected the pristine whiteness blowing into shadowy silvery mounds beneath the stars. It spread out before him, all pure and flowing and sterling. There'd always been a gentle peace and welcome solitude on a wintry night in this house. A place of memories and innocent times; a place for new plans.

As a boy, he'd always had some elaborate project that had nothing to do with school. On Summit Avenue, alone in his aerie, he drew the stately homes across the street and numbered the many windows and doors, compiling a detailed log of his neighbors' activities. In sixth grade, simultaneously, he kept a diary concerning the girls he liked and a ledger chronicling every penny he made and spent. These secret fascinations led nowhere in the end, were left mysteriously incomplete like the detective novel he patterned after Sherlock Holmes, to be replaced by his next obsession. At Princeton, when he was supposed to be cramming for exams, he wrote a musical. In the army it was a novel. Nothing had changed. He was still that boy, happiest pursuing some goose chase of his own making, and lost without one.

Honesty is basic. It is true that lying is an accomplice to every other form of vice. Or, as someone has said, ‘Sin has many tools, but a lie is the handle which fits them all.’ (O. W. Holmes, in The Home Book of Quotations, p. 1111.)

Luke said that he was surprised when I showed up at his room. That he hadn’t meant to give me the wrong idea. That he would never have taken it beyond just kissing. And he looked so genuine. So trustworthy. So sorry about what had happened. He almost convinced me that I’d misread his signals.” Hallelujah pauses. “The whole time, I kept my mouth shut. I wish I hadn’t. But I was still so humiliated. And I felt guilty. I made out with him. I liked it. And no one made me go to his room.” Her voice breaks. She has to swallow past a lump in her throat. “I know Luke’s not a good guy. I know what he did isn’t my fault. It’s his. But still, none of it would’ve happened if I hadn’t gone to his room.” She’s almost there. Almost done. Almost heard. Something deep inside her hurts like it hasn’t hurt in a long time. But she knows that this gash had to reopen in order to heal. That’s how wounds work. They need air. “I knew I’d get punished, and I did. My parents grounded me. I was put on youth group probation. But I honestly thought Luke’s lies would just fade away if I kept a low profile. There’s always gossip about someone. This time it was me.” ... “Luke is still telling people about what supposedly happened that night,” Hallelujah says. “And he makes fun of me. All the time. What I look like, what I say, my name. And he does this thing at church: whenever we sing a hymn with my name in it, he sings it like he’s hooking up with me. He sings the word ‘hallelujah’ at me. He moans it. And I hate it.” That’s one of the reasons she stopped singing: his voice, his fake grunts of satisfaction, ruining the music she loved so much. “You said,” she says to Jonah, “he wanted to keep me upset. To keep me from telling anyone what really happened. Well, it worked.” She pauses. “Until now.” “Until now,” Rachel repeats. Then she curses. “I can’t believe him. I can’t believe he got away with it.” “I let him get away with it,” Hallelujah says softly. “No. He’s the one who crossed the line. And okay, maybe you could’ve spoken up sooner. But if no one pushed you for your side of the story, that’s on them.” Rachel yawns and stretches. “And when we get home, we’re going to set the record straight.

The Wolsten Holme Contractors Ltd is family run Business provides the high standard and quality of work according to your requirements.

The stardust and the moonlight call louder, and this could be mine. It could be home. I could be home.

I HIGHLY SUGGEST YOU CHECK OUT THE FOLLOWING: The book The Power of Myth by Joseph Campbell, with Bill Moyers, and the PBS special of the same name. The film Finding Joe is also a good intro to Joey Cambs. Anything by Rob Bell, especially Love Wins and What We Talk About When We Talk About God, and his podcast The RobCast. Anything by Eckhart Tolle, most notably The Power of Now (especially as an audio book) and A New Earth. There are also so many great talks on YouTube. Anything by Richard Rohr, particularly Falling Upward, Everything Belongs, and The Universal Christ, and his audio series The Sermon on the Mount. The podcast The Duncan Trussell Family Hour. Anything by Ram Dass, specifically his audio series Experiments in Truth and Love, Service, Devotion, and the Ultimate Surrender, and his books Grist for the Mill, Polishing the Mirror, Be Love Now, and, when you’re ready, Be Here Now. Also the movies Ram Dass, Going Home; and Dying to Know. Anything by Alan Watts, starting with his audio series You’re It!: On Hiding, Seeking, and Being Found. There’s some amazing content on YouTube as well. And lastly, The Lazy Man’s Guide to Enlightenment by Thaddeus Golas.

But he’s so damn hopeful. His eyes burn bright and he floods the room with longing. It’s a light shining bright on a stormy night, the beacon calling me home. It’s beyond probability but he’s offering me the possibility of salvation.

It’s horrific. It’s nice. It’s comforting. It’s enough to make my inside retch. It feels like home. And I hate it because it’s him.

Through my body, they can touch each other, be with each other, and the pain is a little less raw. I can be the conduit that brings them home to each other.

When you leave a place, you leave a piece of your heart behind, and so, when, years later, in your new home, you find others who also left, those who are not from Hong Kong, but are most certainly of Hong Kong. You can see the missing pieces in their eyes too. We find each other where we can: the complicity of the ones who left. We carry it with us, a story to whisper to ourselves at night when our hearts ache for something we didn't know we'd miss.

HOLMES?’ Jackman nodded. He’d always thought the acronym for the Home Office Large and Major Enquiry System

I later learned that no one should have more than six direct reports, but at the time I had something like 22. So I was constantly reacting to my staff’s needs for attention. Basically, I was in a reactive mode all the time. I worked seven days a week—10 to 12 hours per day at the office, dealing with interruptions, and then I’d go home and do all the creative work to keep every thing going.

I suck on the cherry Halls in my mouth, a bad habit of mine when I’m anxious. My partner back home got me to switch to the sugar-free ones and they’re not too bad. Not as good, but they’ll do. I’d dropped the habit about a year ago but recently picked it back up.

If August was my counterpoint, my mirror, Jamie was the only escape from myself I’d ever found. When I was beside him, I understood who I was. I spoke to him, and I liked the words I said. I spoke to him, and the words he said back surprised me. Sharpened me. If August reflected me, Jamie showed me myself made better. He was loyal and kind, stalwart, like the knights from the old tales, and yes, he was handsome, even with a bruised face and a furrowed brow, miles away from the place we met or from the places we called home.

Built in 1855, the Parker House had once been home to the Saturday Club, hosting the likes of Nathaniel Hawthorne, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, and Oliver Wendell Holmes. Other notable guests included Charles Dickens, who had resided at the hotel for five months in 1867, and the villainous John Wilkes Boothe just two years prior.

Ever since I’d been brought home to recover, I’d watched him struggle to understand how he should feel.

I can’t tell a psychophyte – what is it?” “Psilophyte,” said Gilzow. “I can’t tell a psilophyte from creamed spinach. To me, a trilobite’s just a waterlogged pillbug. And it doesn’t matter what time period I’m in, meteorology’s the same here as it is back home. Trade winds blow from the east, a high-pressure system’s still – everything’s different for the rest of you.” “Not for me and Bonnie,” said Holmes. “Rocks is rocks.” “Still.” Ovington gestured at the

would rather Watson be at home, doing research and reading novels, because one prefers to have their heart locked safely in their chest.

In younger years, he’d wonder whether he was more doctor or writer. Since the dark period back home, he questioned if he was really either—witnessing death all around him had robbed him of both.

I get them ready. You take them out. You bring them back. Just tell me, SEAL, is it mission complete?” Holmes swallowed hard as he nodded. “They all came home,” he said, voice cracking. “Good. Then I’ll keep sending you more.

According to my instructions, I’m supposed to laugh at you now.” “Go ahead?” The voice managed a kind of embarrassed chuckle. More soft tapping sounds, but the voice spoke again before they finished. “I won’t give you my identity. It’s not important. Know that I am an interested party, and I want you to begin booking your travel back home. You have no particular skills. You know this. You’re a fairly standard teenage boy. You have no use but to be used.” “I know it’s fun to be cryptic, but that last thing made zero sense.” I wanted the voice to keep talking, because as I wiggled my hands, I realized the zip tie wasn’t as tight as it needed to be. “Think of yourself as a package. It’s Christmas, so picture a nicely wrapped present. Charlotte carries it around. It’s heavy in her arms, but it’s pleasing to look at it. Maybe the package talks. It’s witty. It’s flattering. It makes her feel special, and she likes that feeling. And one day Charlotte leaves it somewhere in public, and poof, it is taken from her. Charlotte is sad. Then furious. Charlotte will do anything to get her present back. Horrible things. Things that will end in her death, or imprisonment. We don’t want Charlotte to do these things.” “So in this weird children’s story you’re telling me, I’m a talking package.” I’d put my wrists between my knees, and slowly, slowly, I worked one curled hand out of its binding. “That’s a pretty stupid extended metaphor. Did you fail English class? You were more of a math person, weren’t you?

I'm not a Sherlock Holmes, an intellectual detective, who sits in an armchair and solves his cases. Neither am I a scientific one, hunting for clues, fingerprints, cracking alibis. I've always depended on my simple knowledge of human nature. I've tried to get background, the feel of cases, to soak myself in the environment of crimes and those who commit them. I've grown to depend on the solution coming almost instinctively, or subconsciously, after I've got to know all the parties and their homes and their circumstances in a case.

The police feared riot and disorder so much, it was ordered that any person caught looting would be shot on sight--with no suggestion as to how the soldier or policeman might tell if the person in his sights was a looter or a rightful home-owner. (Locked Rooms, chapter 8.)

As a teacher to many teenage boys (and sister to more than one), I can tell you that those without a father have not cornered the market on needing to think before they act. And as the wife of a man who grew up without a father in the home and the daughter of another, I can assure that their mothers worked hard at teaching them how to show deference to their elders.

I truly hope the efforts of Red Shirt and Colonel Cody can bring about peace between their peoples, Watson. They have much to learn from each other.” I queried my friend, “The white race is far advanced beyond Red Shirt’s people, Holmes. I can see the advantage the Indians would have in being assimilated into American society, but what do they have to offer in return?” Holmes limped over to the window and replied, “They are an honourable and courageous people, Watson. They are also great respecters of nature, whereas the white man runs roughshod over it in the name of progress. We need their wisdom to maintain the delicate balance of man in his place in the natural world.” “Surely science can provide the answers we need, old man,” I answered. My friend crooked his finger at me and bade me join him at the window. The streets were bustling with people and horse drawn vehicles, the London sky was shrouded in a yellowish-grey, poisonous atmosphere from the many smokestacks of homes, trains and factories. “There is the result of science, Doctor,” he said pointing to the murky skyline. “I believe that I would gladly trade this version of ‘civilisation’ for the blue skies and simple ways which the Sioux fought so desperately for. What say you?” Holmes to Watson in Buffalo Bill and the Red Shirt Menace A Sherlock Holmes Alphabet of Cases: Volume One

Miss Yarmouth blushed furiously, but now that she’d started, her courage seemed to rise. “I know you are still married, sir. But your petition for divorce is certain to be granted. And if you’ll please listen to me . . .” “I am listening.” “I’ve heard what people say about you and Miss Charlotte Holmes. That you love and admire her, but can’t marry her because she is no longer respectable and you must think of the children.” That had never been the reason he wouldn’t marry Holmes, but he wasn’t about to explain himself to Miss Yarmouth, who in any case went on without waiting for corrections. “But I am respectable. And the children already know me. And since you must find another mother for them, you know they will accept me. You know that their welfare is of tremendous importance to me. And I hope that during my years of service, you have gained some insight into my character, my lord. I am loyal, you know that. I will never betray you. And I understand that our arrangement will be one of convenience—that your heart belongs elsewhere. I will never be jealous or unpleasant. I will make this a harmonious, happy home.” Or at least that was what he thought he heard. His ears rang.

If you want to watch TV and also learn the correct way to remodel, evaluating those you hire, and why it’s important to pay the right price to get a qualified professional--watch any of the shows that feature Mike Holmes. While they typically deal with Canadian homes, his analysis is usually spot-on in my opinion, and he repairs the shoddy work of others while teaching owners and viewers why he does what he does.

I would rather Watson be at home, doing research and reading novels, because one prefers to have their heart locked safely in their chest.