He sat now with his handcuffed hands upon his lap, and his head sunk upon his breast, while he looked with his keen, twinkling eyes at the box which had been the cause of his ill-doings.
It seemed to me that there was more sorrow than anger in his rigid and contained countenance.

Once he looked up at me with a gleam of something like humor in his eyes.
"Well, Jonathan Small," said Holmes, lighting a cigar, "I am sorry that it has come to this." "And so am I, sir," he answered, frankly.

"I don't believe that I can swing over the job.

I give you my word on the book that I never raised hand against Mr.Sholto.

It was that little hell-hound Tonga who shot one of his cursed darts into him.