The absence of newspapers at the breakfast table was singular.
It was, I determined later, the penultimate in a series of singularities at the breakfast table of 221B Baker Street.
The first had occurred four days prior.
There was a rustling, then a question.
“What do you think of French philosophy, Watson?”
I started, not at the nature of question, but at the question itself.
Save for the rare interruption by a desperate client, Holmes and I breakfasted in silence, each absorbed in her own tea and reading material of choice.
Struck by the afore-mentioned singularity, I returned my cup to its saucer and gave the question due consideration.
Then I lowered my paper and replied, “Favourable—provided that the philosophy does not include invasion of England.”
Holmes harrumphed and raised a smudged-ink curtain between us.
Then, casting my mind back to the curve of a certain dancer’s leg, I added, “I do appreciate a certain
With no response forthcoming, I raised my own curtain, and silence descended once more upon the jam and butter.
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