Chapter Nine is Quite Divine
Sherlock Holmes, handsome, clever, and rich, with a comfortable home and a gay disposition, seemed to unite some of the best blessings of existence; yet he had lived nearly twenty-one years in the world with very little to interest or intrigue him. And then the murders began.
“Well, my dears, how does your book go on? Have you got anything fresh?”
“Yes, Papa; we have something to read you, something quite fresh. A piece of paper was found on the table this morning — dropped, we suppose, by a fairy — containing a very pretty charade, and we have just copied it in.”
Sherlock read it to his father, just as he liked to have anything read, slowly and distinctly, and two or three times over, with explanations of every part — and he was very much pleased, as Sherlock had foreseen.
“Aye, that’s very just, indeed, that’s very properly said. It is such a clever charade, my dear, that I can easily guess what fairy brought it. Nobody could have written so cleverly, but you, Sherlock.”
Sherlock only smiled.
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