Poetic Prose: Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

The Return of Sherlock Holmes

“Outside the wind howled down Baker Street, while the rain beat fiercely against the windows. It was strange there in the depths of the town, with ten miles of man’s handiwork on every side of us, to feel the iron grip of Nature, and to be conscious that to the huge elemental forces all London was no more than the molehills that dot the fields.”

(From “The Golden Pince-nez.”)

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