I mostly read Sherlock Holmes stories
for the food. Holmes knocks over
a bowl of oranges ("Watson! You clumsy
") or chain-smokes like a madman all
over the invalid professor's bedroom,
to find he's had a fine large dish
of cutlets - enough for two, really.
Not to mention all those hurried
meals, stuffed in pockets on the way
out the door when the game's afoot,
the cold pheasant or whatever laid
out by Mrs. Hudson. It's details
like these I treasure. Those who
pass over them unnoticed lack
a certain faculty of observation,
I find.
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