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THE ADVENTURES OF SHERLOCK HOLMES
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Arthur Conan Doyle
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Table of contents
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A Scandal in Bohemia
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The Red-Headed League
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A Case of Identity
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The Boscombe Valley Mystery
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The Five Orange Pips
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The Man with the Twisted Lip
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The Adventure of the Blue Carbuncle
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The Adventure of the Speckled Band
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The Adventure of the Engineer's Thumb
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The Adventure of the Noble Bachelor
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The Adventure of the Beryl Coronet
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The Adventure of the Copper Beeches
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A SCANDAL IN BOHEMIA
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Table of contents
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Chapter 1
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Chapter 2
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Chapter 3
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CHAPTER I
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To Sherlock Holmes she is always the woman. I have seldom heard him
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mention her under any other name. In his eyes she eclipses and
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predominates the whole of her sex. It was not that he felt any
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emotion akin to love for Irene Adler. All emotions, and that one
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particularly, were abhorrent to his cold, precise but admirably
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balanced mind. He was, I take it, the most perfect reasoning and
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observing machine that the world has seen, but as a lover he would
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have placed himself in a false position. He never spoke of the softer
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passions, save with a gibe and a sneer. They were admirable things
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for the observer--excellent for drawing the veil from men's motives
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and actions. But for the trained reasoner to admit such intrusions
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into his own delicate and finely adjusted temperament was to
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introduce a distracting factor which might throw a doubt upon all his
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mental results. Grit in a sensitive instrument, or a crack in one of
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his own high-power lenses, would not be more disturbing than a strong
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emotion in a nature such as his. And yet there was but one woman to
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him, and that woman was the late Irene Adler, of dubious and
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questionable memory.
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I had seen little of Holmes lately. My marriage had drifted us away
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from each other. My own complete happiness, and the home-centred
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interests which rise up around the man who first finds himself master
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of his own establishment, were sufficient to absorb all my attention,
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while Holmes, who loathed every form of society with his whole
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Bohemian soul, remained in our lodgings in Baker Street, buried among
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his old books, and alternating from week to week between cocaine and
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ambition, the drowsiness of the drug, and the fierce energy of his
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own keen nature. He was still, as ever, deeply attracted by the study
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of crime, and occupied his immense faculties and extraordinary powers
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of observation in following out those clues, and clearing up those
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mysteries which had been abandoned as hopeless by the official
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police. From time to time I heard some vague account of his doings:
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of his summons to Odessa in the case of the Trepoff murder, of his
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clearing up of the singular tragedy of the Atkinson brothers at
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Trincomalee, and finally of the mission which he had accomplished so
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delicately and successfully for the reigning family of Holland.
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Beyond these signs of his activity, however, which I merely shared
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