I may be silly--in fact, I'm off my head--but I never could believe in that man--what's his name, in those capital stories ?--Sherlock Holmes.

Every detail points to something, certainly; but generally to the wrong thing.

Facts point in all directions, it seems to me, like the thousands of twigs on a tree.
It's only the life of the tree that has unity and goes up--only the green blood that springs, like a fountain, at the stars." "But what the deuce else can the letter be but criminal ?" "We have eternity to stretch our legs in," replied the mystic.

"It can be an infinity of things.

I haven't seen any of them--I've only seen the letter.