Sherlock Holmes took his bottle from the corner of the mantel-piece and his hypodermic syringe from its neat morocco case.

I cannot live without brain-work. What else is there to live for?

"For me," said Sherlock Holmes, "there still remains the cocaine-bottle." And he stretched his long white hand up for it.

Her readers followed along, very naturally adopting her point of view, and before they knew it, they were in another world—a world that was not this world, a world in which the Little People made air chrysalises.