Arthur Conan Doyle

You fidget me beyond endurance. You, a doctor — you are enough to drive a patient into an asylum.

You and I, Watson, we have done our part. Shall the world, then, be overrun by oysters? No, no; horrible!

Malingering is a subject upon which I have sometimes thought of writing a monograph.

There is no part of the body which varies so much as the human ear.

Three days of absolute fast does not improve one's beauty, Watson.

We had got as far as this, when who should walk in but the gentleman himself, who had been drinking his beer in the tap-room and had heard the whole conversation. Who was I? What did I want? What did I mean by asking questions? He had a fine flow of language, and his adjectives were very vigorous. He ended a string of abuse by a vicious back-hander, which I failed to entirely avoid. The next few minutes were delicious. It was a straight left against a slogging ruffian. I emerged as you see me. Mr. Woodley went home in a cart. So ended my country trip, and it must be confessed that, however enjoyable, my day on the Surrey border has not been much more profitable than your own.

I have never been in Africa in my life, so you can put that in your pipe and smoke it, Mr. Busybody Holmes!

What I know is unofficial; what he knows is official.

Now, Watson, the fair sex is your department.

"Come, Watson, come!" he cried. "The game is afoot. Not a word! Into your clothes and come!"

Only one important thing has happened in the last three days, and that is that nothing has happened.

A draghound will follow aniseed from here to John o' Groat's, and our friend, Armstrong, would have to drive through the Cam before he would shake Pompey off his trail.