The Hound of the Baskervilles by Arthur Conan Doyle (good books to read for women txt) π
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It would be hard to nominate a more well-known character in English literature than that of the austere analytical detective Sherlock Holmes, created by Arthur Conan Doyle in the late 1880s. Holmes, alongside his friend and biographer Dr. John Watson, appeared in two initial novels and dozens of short stories serialized in popular magazines, attracting a devoted, almost fanatical following which continues to this day.
The Hound of the Baskervilles, serialized in 1901β1902, was the third novel featuring Holmes and Watson. Sherlock Holmes is consulted in his Baker Street apartment by Dr. Mortimer, a physician now living on the fringes of Dartmoor. He gives Holmes and Watson an account of a centuries-old legend, in which a hell-hound slaughtered the debauched heir of the Baskerville family who had been in lecherous pursuit of an innocent maiden across the moor. The same hound is reputed to have harrowed several of the subsequent heirs to the estate.
This ancient story might be dismissed as mere fancy, but for the fact that the elderly Sir Charles Baskerville recently died in very mysterious circumstances, apparently fleeing in terror from something which came from the moor. Dr. Mortimer is concerned that the new heir, Sir Henry, just returned from Canada, may be at risk from this supernatural beast. Holmes is intrigued, but being too busy to go himself, sends Dr. Watson to accompany Sir Henry to the ancestral home on Dartmoor and to report anything suspicious.
The Hound of the Baskervilles is arguably the best, and certainly the most popular, of Doyleβs novels featuring his iconic detective. It has been translated into almost every language in the world and been the basis of dozens of movies (starting as early as 1914), radio plays and comic books.
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- Author: Arthur Conan Doyle
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βWell, Jack, you are very hot.β
βYes, I was chasing a Cyclopides. He is very rare and seldom found in the late autumn. What a pity that I should have missed him!β He spoke unconcernedly, but his small light eyes glanced incessantly from the girl to me.
βYou have introduced yourselves, I can see.β
βYes. I was telling Sir Henry that it was rather late for him to see the true beauties of the moor.β
βWhy, who do you think this is?β
βI imagine that it must be Sir Henry Baskerville.β
βNo, no,β said I. βOnly a humble commoner, but his friend. My name is Dr. Watson.β
A flush of vexation passed over her expressive face. βWe have been talking at cross purposes,β said she.
βWhy, you had not very much time for talk,β her brother remarked with the same questioning eyes.
βI talked as if Dr. Watson were a resident instead of being merely a visitor,β said she. βIt cannot much matter to him whether it is early or late for the orchids. But you will come on, will you not, and see Merripit House?β
A short walk brought us to it, a bleak moorland house, once the farm of some grazier in the old prosperous days, but now put into repair and turned into a modern dwelling. An orchard surrounded it, but the trees, as is usual upon the moor, were stunted and nipped, and the effect of the whole place was mean and melancholy. We were admitted by a strange, wizened, rusty-coated old manservant, who seemed in keeping with the house. Inside, however, there were large rooms furnished with an elegance in which I seemed to recognize the taste of the lady. As I looked from their windows at the interminable granite-flecked moor rolling unbroken to the farthest horizon I could not but marvel at what could have brought this highly educated man and this beautiful woman to live in such a place.
βQueer spot to choose, is it not?β said he as if in answer to my thought. βAnd yet we manage to make ourselves fairly happy, do we not, Beryl?β
βQuite happy,β said she, but there was no ring of conviction in her words.
βI had a school,β said Stapleton. βIt was in the north country. The work to a man of my temperament was mechanical and uninteresting, but the privilege of living with youth, of helping to mould those young minds, and of impressing them with oneβs own character and ideals was very dear to me. However, the fates were against us. A serious epidemic broke out in the school and three of the boys died. It never recovered from the blow, and much of my capital was irretrievably swallowed up. And yet, if it were not for the loss of the charming companionship of the boys, I could rejoice over my own misfortune, for, with my strong tastes for botany and zoology, I find an unlimited field of work here, and my sister is as devoted to Nature as I am. All this, Dr. Watson, has been brought upon your head by your expression as you surveyed the moor out of our window.β
βIt certainly did cross my mind that it might be a little dullβ βless for you, perhaps, than for your sister.β
βNo, no, I am never dull,β said she quickly.
βWe have books, we have our studies, and we have interesting neighbours. Dr. Mortimer is a most learned man in his own line. Poor Sir Charles was also an admirable companion. We knew him well and miss him more than I can tell. Do you think that I should intrude if I were to call this afternoon and make the acquaintance of Sir Henry?β
βI am sure that he would be delighted.β
βThen perhaps you would mention that I propose to do so. We may in our humble way do something to make things more easy for him until he becomes accustomed to his new surroundings. Will you come upstairs, Dr. Watson, and inspect my collection of Lepidoptera? I think it is the most complete one in the southwest of England. By the time that you have looked through them lunch will be almost ready.β
But I was eager to get back to my charge. The melancholy of the moor, the death of the unfortunate pony, the weird sound which had been associated with the grim legend of the Baskervilles, all these things tinged my thoughts with sadness. Then on the top of these more or less vague impressions there had come the definite and distinct warning of Miss Stapleton, delivered with such intense earnestness that I could not doubt that some grave and deep reason lay behind it. I resisted all pressure to stay for lunch, and I set off at once upon my return journey, taking the grass-grown path by which we had come.
It seems, however, that there must have been some shortcut for those who knew it, for before I had reached the road I was astounded to see Miss Stapleton sitting upon a rock by the side of the track. Her face was beautifully flushed with her exertions and she held her hand to her side.
βI have run all the way in order to cut you off, Dr. Watson,β said she. βI had not even time to put on my hat. I must not stop, or my brother may miss me. I wanted to say to you how sorry I am about the stupid mistake I made in thinking that you were Sir Henry. Please forget the words I said, which have no application whatever to you.β
βBut I canβt forget them, Miss Stapleton,β said I. βI am Sir Henryβs friend, and his welfare is a very close concern of mine. Tell me why it was that you were so eager that Sir Henry should return to London.β
βA womanβs whim, Dr. Watson. When you know me better you will understand that I cannot always give reasons for what I say or do.β
βNo, no. I remember the thrill in your voice. I remember the look in your
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