A Scandal in Bohemia: Chapter 1, part 12

ə ˈmæn ˈentəd | hu kəd ˈhɑːdli əv biːn ˈles | ðən ˈsɪks ˈfiːt ˈsɪks ˈɪnʧɪz ɪn ˈhaɪt | wɪð ðə ˈʧest ən ˈlɪmz əv ə ˈhɜːkjəliːz || hɪz ˈdres wəz ˈrɪʧ wɪð ə ˈrɪʧnəs | wɪʧ ˈwʊd ɪn ˈɪŋɡləm | bi ˈlʊkt əˈpɒn | əz əˈkɪn tə ˈbæd ˈteɪst || ˈhevi ˈbænz əv ˈæstrəkæn | wə ˈslæʃt əˈkrɒs ðə ˈsliːvz ən ˈfrʌnts | əv ɪz ˈdʌbl̩ ˈbrestɪɡ ˈkəʊt | waɪl ðə ˈdiːp ˈbluː ˈkləʊk | wɪʧ wəz ˈθrəʊn ˈəʊvər ɪz ˈʃəʊldəz | wəz ˈlaɪnd wɪð ˈfleɪm ˈkʌləd ˈsɪlk | ən sɪˈkjɔːd ət ðə ˈnek wɪð ə ˈbrəʊʧ | wɪʧ kənˈsɪstɪd əv ə ˈsɪŋɡl̩ ˈfleɪmɪŋ ˈberəl || ˈbuːts wɪʧ ɪkˈstendɪd ˈhɑːfweɪ ˈʌp ɪz ˈkɑːvz | ən wɪʧ wə ˈtrɪmd ət ðə ˈtɒps | wɪð ˈrɪʧ ˈbraʊn ˈfɜː | kəmˈpliːtɪd ði ɪmˈpreʃn̩ | əv bɑːˈbærɪk ˈɒpjuləns | wɪʧ wəz səˈʤestɪb baɪ ɪz ˈhəʊl əˈpɪərəns || hi ˈkærid ə ˈbrɔːd ˈrɪmd ˈhæt ɪn ɪz ˈhænd | waɪl i ˈwɔːr əˈkrɒs ði ˈʌpə ˈpɑːt əv ɪz ˈfeɪs | ɪkˈstendɪŋ ˈdaʊm ˈpɑːs ðə ˈʧiːkbəʊnz | ə ˈblæk ˈvɪzəb ˈmɑːsk | wɪʧ id əˈpærəntli əˈʤʌstɪd | ˈðæt ˈveri ˈməʊmənt | fər ɪz ˈhænd wəz ˈstɪl ˈreɪzd tu ɪt | əz i ˈentəd || frəm ðə ˈləʊə ˈpɑːt ə ðə ˈfeɪs | hi əˈpɪəd tə bi ə ˈmæn əv ˈstrɒŋ ˈkærəktə | wɪð ə ˈθɪk ˈhæŋɪŋ ˈlɪp | ən ə ˈlɒŋ ˈstreɪt ˈʧɪn | səˈʤestɪv əv ˈrezəˈluːʃn̩ | ˈpʊʃt tə ðə ˈleŋθ əv ˈɒbstənəsi

Doyle, Arthur Conan. The Original Illustrated Sherlock Holmes. “Reproduced from the original publication in The Strand Magazine with the classic illustrations by Sidney Paget.” Edison, New Jersey: Castle Books, [after 1954]. Internet Archive version of a copy donated by Friends of the San Francisco Library. http://www.victorianweb.org/art/illustration/pagets/3.html

A man entered who could hardly have been less than six feet six inches in height, with the chest and limbs of a Hercules. His dress was rich with a richness which would, in England, be looked upon as akin to bad taste. Heavy bands of astrakhan were slashed across the sleeves and fronts of his double-breasted coat, while the deep blue cloak which was thrown over his shoulders was lined with flame-coloured silk and secured at the neck with a brooch which consisted of a single flaming beryl. Boots which extended halfway up his calves, and which were trimmed at the tops with rich brown fur, completed the impression of barbaric opulence which was suggested by his whole appearance. He carried a broad-brimmed hat in his hand, while he wore across the upper part of his face, extending down past the cheekbones, a black vizard mask, which he had apparently adjusted that very moment, for his hand was still raised to it as he entered. From the lower part of the face he appeared to be a man of strong character, with a thick, hanging lip, and a long, straight chin suggestive of resolution pushed to the length of obstinacy.

A Scandal in Bohemia: Chapter 1, part 11

aɪ ˈθɪŋk ðət aɪb ˈbetə ˈɡəʊ ˈhəʊmz

ˈnɒt ə ˈbɪt ˈdɒktə | ˈsteɪ weə ju ˈɑː | aɪm ˈlɒs | wɪðˈaʊp maɪ ˈbɒzwel || ən ðɪs ˈprɒmɪsɪz tə bi ˈɪntrəstɪŋ || ɪt əb bi ə ˈpɪti tə ˈmɪs ɪt

bəʧɔː ˈklaɪənt

ˈnevə ˈmaɪnd ˈhɪm || aɪ ˈmeɪ ˈwɒnʧɔː ˈhelp | ən ˈsəʊ ˈmeɪ ˈhiː || ˈhɪər | i ˈkʌmz || ˈsɪt ˈdaʊn ɪn ˈðæt ˈɑːmʧeə | ˈdɒktə | əŋ ˈɡɪv əs jɔː ˈbest əˈtenʃn̩

ə ˈsləʊ ən ˈhevi ˈstep | wɪʧ əb biːn ˈhɜːd əˈpɒn ðə ˈsteəz | ən ɪn ðə ˈpæsɪʤ | ˈpɔːzd ɪˈmiːdiətli ˈaʊtˈsaɪd ðə ˈdɔː || ˈðen ðə wəz ə ˈlaʊd ən ɔːˈθɒrətətɪv ˈtæp

ˈkʌm ˈɪn ˈsed ˈhəʊmz

“I think that I had better go, Holmes.”

“Not a bit, Doctor. Stay where you are. I am lost without my Boswell. And this promises to be interesting. It would be a pity to miss it.”

“But your client—”

“Never mind him. I may want your help, and so may he. Here he comes. Sit down in that armchair, Doctor, and give us your best attention.”

A slow and heavy step, which had been heard upon the stairs and in the passage, paused immediately outside the door. Then there was a loud and authoritative tap.

“Come in!” said Holmes.

A Scandal in Bohemia: Chapter 1, part 10

ðə ˈpeɪpə wəz ˈmeɪd ɪm bəˈhiːmiər aɪ ˈsed

prɪˈsaɪsli || ən ðə ˈmæn u ˈrəʊt ðə ˈnəʊts ə ˈʤɜːmən || ʤu ˈnəʊt ðə pɪˈkjuːliə kənˈstrʌkʃn̩ ə ðə ˈsentəns | ˈðɪs əˈkaʊnt əv ju | wiv frəm ˈɔːl ˈkɔːtəz rɪˈsiːvd || ə ˈfrenʧmən ɔːr ə ˈrʌʃŋ̩ | ˈkʊdn̩ əv ˈrɪtn̩ ˈðæt || ɪts ðə ˈʤɜːmən huz ˈsəʊ ʌnˈkɜːtiəs tu ɪz ˈvɜːbz || ɪt ˈəʊnli rɪˈmeɪnz ˈðeəˈfɔː | tə dɪˈskʌvə ˈwɒts ˈwɒntɪb baɪ ðɪs ˈʤɜːmən | hu ˈraɪts əˈpɒm bəˈhiəmiəm ˈpeɪpər | əm prɪˈfɜːz ˈweərɪŋ ə ˈmɑːsk | tə ˈʃəʊɪŋ ɪz ˈfeɪs || ən ˈhɪər i ˈkʌmz | ɪf aɪm ˈnɒp mɪˈsteɪkən | tə rɪˈzɒlv ˈɔːl ɑː ˈdaʊts

ˈæz i ˈspəʊk | ðə wəz ðə ˈʃɑːp ˈsaʊnd | əv ˈhɔːsɪz ˈhuːfs | əŋ ˈɡreɪtɪŋ ˈwiːlz əˈɡens ðə ˈkɜːb | ˈfɒləʊb baɪ ə ˈʃɑːp ˈpʊl ət ðə ˈbel || ˈhəʊmz ˈwɪsl̩d

ə ˈpeə | baɪ ðə ˈsaʊnd i ˈsed || ˈjes i kənˈtɪnjuːd | ˈɡlɑːnsɪŋ ˈaʊt ə ðə ˈwɪndəʊ || ə ˈnaɪs ˈlɪtl̩ ˈbruːəm | ən ə ˈpeər ə ˈbjuːtiz || ə ˈhʌndrəd n̩ ˈfɪfti ˈɡɪniz əˈpiːs || ðəz ˈmʌni ɪn ðɪs ˈkeɪs ˈwɒtsn̩ | ɪf ðəz ˈnʌθɪŋ ˈels

“The paper was made in Bohemia,” I said.

“Precisely. And the man who wrote the note is a German. Do you note the peculiar construction of the sentence—‘This account of you we have from all quarters received.’ A Frenchman or Russian could not have written that. It is the German who is so uncourteous to his verbs. It only remains, therefore, to discover what is wanted by this German who writes upon Bohemian paper and prefers wearing a mask to showing his face. And here he comes, if I am not mistaken, to resolve all our doubts.”

As he spoke there was the sharp sound of horses' hoofs and grating wheels against the curb, followed by a sharp pull at the bell. Holmes whistled.

“A pair, by the sound,” said he. “Yes,” he continued, glancing out of the window. “A nice little brougham and a pair of beauties. A hundred and fifty guineas apiece. There's money in this case, Watson, if there is nothing else.”

A Scandal in Bohemia: Chapter 1, part 9

ˈnɒt ə ˈtɔːl || ðə ˈʤiː wɪð ðə ˈsmɔːl ˈtiː | ˈstænz fə ɡəˈzelʃɑːft | wɪʧ ɪz ðə ˈʤɜːmən fə ˈkʌmpəni || ɪts ə ˈkʌstəmri kənˈtrækʃn̩ | laɪk ˈɑː ˈsiːˈəʊ || ˈpiː | əv ˈkɔːs | ˈstænz fə pæˈpiːə || ˈnaʊ fə ði ˈiːˈʤiː || ˈlets ˈɡlɑːns | ət ɑː ˈkɒntəˈnentl̩ ˈɡæzəˈtɪə || hi ˈtʊk ˈdaʊn | ə ˈhevi ˈbraʊn ˈvɒljuːm | frəm ɪʒ ˈʃelvz || ˈeɡləʊ | ˈeɡlənɪts | ˈhɪə | wi ˈɑː | ˈeɡriə || ɪts ɪn ə ˈʤɜːmən ˈspiːkɪŋ ˈkʌntri | ɪm bəˈhiːmiə | ˈnɒt ˈfɑː frəm ˈkɑːlzbæd || rɪˈmɑːkəbl̩ əz ˈbiːɪŋ ðə ˈsiːn | əv ðə ˈdeθ əv ˈwɒlənstaɪn | ən fər ɪts ˈnjuːmərəs ˈɡlɑːs ˈfæktriz | əm ˈpeɪpə ˈmɪlz || ˈhɑː ˈhɑː maɪ ˈbɔɪ | ˈwɒt ʤu ˈmeɪk ə ˈðæt || hɪz ˈaɪz ˈspɑːkl̩d | ən i ˈsent ˈʌp | ə ˈɡreɪp ˈbluː traɪˈʌmfəŋk ˈklaʊd | frəm ɪz ˈsɪɡəˈret

“Not at all. The ‘G’ with the small ‘t’ stands for ‘Gesellschaft,’ which is the German for ‘Company.’ It is a customary contraction like our ‘Co.’ ‘P,’ of course, stands for ‘Papier.’ Now for the ‘Eg.’ Let us glance at our Continental Gazetteer.” He took down a heavy brown volume from his shelves. “Eglow, Eglonitz—here we are, Egria. It is in a German-speaking country—in Bohemia, not far from Carlsbad. ‘Remarkable as being the scene of the death of Wallenstein, and for its numerous glass-factories and paper-mills.’ Ha, ha, my boy, what do you make of that?” His eyes sparkled, and he sent up a great blue triumphant cloud from his cigarette.

A Scandal in Bohemia: Chapter 1, part 8

ˈðɪs ɪz ɪnˈdiːd ə ˈmɪstri aɪ rɪˈmɑːkt || ˈwɒt də ju ɪˈmæʤən ðət ɪp ˈmiːnz

aɪ hæv ˈnəʊ ˈdeɪtə ˈjet || ɪts ə ˈkæpətl̩ mɪˈsteɪk | tə ˈθɪəraɪz bɪˈfɔː ˈwʌn hæz ˈdeɪtə || ɪnˈsensəbli | ˈwʌm bɪˈɡɪnz tə ˈtwɪs ˈfæks | tə ˈsuːt ˈθɪəriz | ɪnˈsted əv ˈθɪəriz tə ˈsuːt ˈfæks || bət ðə ˈnəʊt ɪtˈself || ˈwɒt də ju dɪˈʤuːs frəm ɪt

aɪ ˈkeəfli ɪɡˈzæmɪn ðə ˈraɪtɪŋ | ən ðə ˈpeɪpər əˈpɒn ˈwɪʧ ɪt wəz ˈrɪtn̩

ðə ˈmæn u ˈrəʊt ɪt | wəz prɪˈzjuːməbli ˈwel tə ˈduː aɪ rɪˈmɑːkt | ɪnˈdevrɪŋ tu ˈɪməteɪp maɪ kəmˈpænjənz ˈprəʊsesɪz || ˈsʌʧ ˈpeɪpə kəd ˈnɒp bi ˈbɔːt | ˈʌndə ˈhɑːf ə ˈkraʊn ə ˈpækɪt || ɪts pɪˈkjuːliəli ˈstrɒŋ ən ˈstɪf

pɪˈkjuːliə | ˈðæts ðə ˈveri ˈwɜːd ˈsed ˈhəʊmz || ɪts ˈnɒt ən ˈɪŋɡlɪʃ ˈpeɪpər ə ˈtɔːl || ˈhəʊld ɪt ˈʌp tə ðə ˈlaɪt

aɪ ˈdɪd ˈsəʊ | ən ˈsɔːr ə ˈlɑːʤ ˈiː | wɪð ə ˈsmɔːl ˈʤiː | ə ˈpiː | ən ə ˈlɑːʤ ˈʤiː | wɪð ə ˈsmɔːl ˈtiː | ˈwəʊvn̩ ˈɪntə ðə ˈteksʧər ə ðə ˈpeɪpə

ˈwɒt də ju ˈmeɪk ə ˈðæt ˈɑːst ˈhəʊmz

ðə ˈneɪm ə ðə ˈmeɪkə ˈnəʊ ˈdaʊt | ɔːr ɪz ˈmɒnəɡræm | ˈrɑːðə

 Doyle, Arthur Conan. The Original Illustrated Sherlock Holmes. “Reproduced from the original publication in The Strand Magazine with the classic illustrations by Sidney Paget.” Edison, New Jersey: Castle Books, [after 1954]. Internet Archive version of a copy donated by Friends of the San Francisco Library. http://www.victorianweb.org/art/illustration/pagets/2.html

“This is indeed a mystery,” I remarked. “What do you imagine that it means?”

“I have no data yet. It is a capital mistake to theorize before one has data. Insensibly one begins to twist facts to suit theories, instead of theories to suit facts. But the note itself. What do you deduce from it?”

I carefully examined the writing, and the paper upon which it was written.

“The man who wrote it was presumably well to do,” I remarked, endeavouring to imitate my companion's processes. “Such paper could not be bought under half a crown a packet. It is peculiarly strong and stiff.”

“Peculiar—that is the very word,” said Holmes. “It is not an English paper at all. Hold it up to the light.”

I did so, and saw a large “E” with a small “g,” a “P,” and a large “G” with a small “t” woven into the texture of the paper.

“What do you make of that?” asked Holmes.

“The name of the maker, no doubt; or his monogram, rather.”

A Scandal in Bohemia: Chapter 1, part 7

ðə ˈnəʊt wəz ˈʌnˈdeɪtɪd | ən wɪðˈaʊt ˈaɪðə ˈsɪɡnəʧər ɔːr əˈdres

ðəl ˈkɔːl əˈpɒn ju təˈnaɪt | ət ə ˈkɔːtə tu ˈeɪt əˈklɒk ɪt ˈsed | ə ˈʤentl̩mən hu dɪˈzaɪəz tə kənˈsʌlʧu | əˈpɒn ə ˈmætər ə ðə ˈveri ˈdiːpɪs ˈməʊmənt || jɔː ˈriːsn̩t ˈsɜːvɪsɪz | tə ˈwʌn ə ðə ˈrɔɪəl ˈhaʊzɪz əv ˈjɔːrəp | həv ˈʃəʊn ðəʧɔː ˈwʌn u meɪ ˈseɪfli bi ˈtrʌstɪd | wɪð ˈmætəz wɪʧ ər əv ən ɪmˈpɔːtn̩s | wɪʧ kən ˈhɑːdli bi ɪɡˈzæʤəreɪtɪd || ˈðɪs əˈkaʊnt əv ju | wiv frəm ˈɔːl ˈkwɔːtəz rɪˈsiːvd || ˈbiː ɪn jɔː ˈʧeɪmbə ˈðen | ət ˈðæt ˈaʊə | ən ˈdəʊnt ˈteɪk ɪt əˈmɪs | ɪf jɔː ˈvɪzɪtə ˈweər ə ˈmɑːsk

The note was undated, and without either signature or address.

“There will call upon you to-night, at a quarter to eight o'clock,” it said, “a gentleman who desires to consult you upon a matter of the very deepest moment. Your recent services to one of the royal houses of Europe have shown that you are one who may safely be trusted with matters which are of an importance which can hardly be exaggerated. This account of you we have from all quarters received. Be in your chamber then at that hour, and do not take it amiss if your visitor wear a mask.”

A Scandal in Bohemia: Chapter 1, part 6

aɪ ˈkʊdn̩ ˈhelp ˈlɑːfɪŋ | ət ði ˈiːz wɪð ˈwɪʧ i ɪkˈspleɪnd | ɪz ˈprəʊses əv dɪˈdʌkʃn̩ || ˈwen aɪ ˈhɪə ju ˈɡɪv jɔː ˈriːzn̩z aɪ rɪˈmɑːkt | ðə ˈθɪŋ ˈɔːwɪz əˈpɪəz tə mi | tə bi ˈsəʊ rɪˈdɪkjələsli ˈsɪmpl̩ | ðət aɪ kəd ˈiːzɪli ˈduː ɪp maɪˈself | ðəʊ ət ˈiːʧ səkˈsesɪv ˈɪnstəns əv jɔː ˈriːznɪŋ | aɪm ˈbæfl̩d ənˈtɪl ju ɪkˈspleɪn jɔː ˈprəʊses || ən ˈjet aɪ bɪˈliːv | ðəp ˈmaɪ ˈaɪz | ər əz ˈɡʊd əz ˈjɔːz

ˈkwaɪt ˈsəʊ i ˈɑːnsəd | ˈlaɪtɪŋ ə ˈsɪɡəˈret | ən ˈθrəʊɪŋ ɪmself ˈdaʊn ɪntu ən ˈɑːmʧeə || ju ˈsiː | bəʧu du ˈnɒt əbˈzɜːv || ðə dɪˈstɪŋʃn̩z ˈkliə || fər ɪɡˈzɑːmpl̩ | juv ˈfriːkwəntli ˈsiːn ðə ˈsteps | wɪʧ ˈliːd ˈʌp frəm ðə ˈhɔːl | tə ðɪs ˈruːm

ˈfriːkwəntli

ˈhaʊ ˈɒfn̩

ˈwel ˈsʌm ˈhʌndrədz ə ˈtaɪmz

ðen ˈhaʊ ˈmeni ˈɑː ˈðeə

ˈhaʊ ˈmeni || aɪ də ˈnəʊ

ˈkwaɪt ˈsəʊ || juv ˈnɒt əbˈzɜːvd || ən ˈjeʧuv ˈsiːn || ˈðæts ˈʤʌs maɪ ˈpɔɪnt || naʊ ˈaɪ ˈnəʊ | ðət ðər ə ˈsevenˈtiːn ˈsteps | bəˈkəz aɪv ˈbəʊθ ˈsiːn | ˈænd əbˈzɜːvd || ˈbaɪ ðə ˈweɪ | ˈsɪns jɔːr ˈɪntrəstɪd ɪn ˈðiːz ˈlɪtl̩ ˈprɒbləmz | ən ˈsɪns jɔː ˈɡʊd ɪˈnʌf | tə ˈkrɒnəkl̩ ˈwʌn ə ˈtuː ə maɪ ˈtraɪflɪŋ ɪkˈspɪəriənsɪz | ju ˈmeɪ bi ˈɪntrəstɪd ɪn ˈðɪs || hi ˈθruː ˈəʊvər | ə ˈʃiːt əv ˈθɪk ˈpɪŋk ˈtɪntɪd ˈnəʊp ˈpeɪpə | wɪʧ əb biːn ˈlaɪɪŋ ˈəʊpən | əˈpɒn ðə ˈteɪbl̩ || ɪk ˈkeɪm baɪ ðə ˈlɑːs ˈpəʊs ˈsed ˈhiː || ˈriːd ɪt əˈlaʊd

I could not help laughing at the ease with which he explained his process of deduction. “When I hear you give your reasons,” I remarked, “the thing always appears to me to be so ridiculously simple that I could easily do it myself, though at each successive instance of your reasoning I am baffled until you explain your process. And yet I believe that my eyes are as good as yours.”

“Quite so,” he answered, lighting a cigarette, and throwing himself down into an armchair. “You see, but you do not observe. The distinction is clear. For example, you have frequently seen the steps which lead up from the hall to this room.”

“Frequently.”

“How often?”

“Well, some hundreds of times.”

“Then how many are there?”

“How many? I don't know.”

“Quite so! You have not observed. And yet you have seen. That is just my point. Now, I know that there are seventeen steps, because I have both seen and observed. By-the-way, since you are interested in these little problems, and since you are good enough to chronicle one or two of my trifling experiences, you may be interested in this.” He threw over a sheet of thick, pink-tinted note-paper which had been lying open upon the table. “It came by the last post,” said he. “Read it aloud.”

A Scandal in Bohemia: Chapter 1, part 5

ɪts sɪmˈplɪsəti ɪtˈself ˈsed ˈhiː | maɪ ˈaɪz ˈtel mi | ðət ɒn ði ˈɪnsaɪd əv jɔː ˈlef ˈʃuː | ˈʤʌs weə ðə ˈfaɪəlaɪt ˈstraɪks ɪt | ðə ˈleðəz ˈskɔːd | baɪ ˈsɪks ˈɔːməʊs ˈpærəlel ˈkʌts || ˈɒbviəsli | ðeɪv biːŋ ˈkɔːz baɪ ˈsʌmwʌn | huz ˈveri ˈkeələsli | ˈskreɪpt ˈraʊn ði ˈeʤɪz ə ðə ˈsəʊl | ɪn ˈɔːdə tə rɪˈmuːv ˈkrʌstɪb ˈmʌd frəm ɪt || ˈhens | ju ˈsiː | maɪ ˈdʌbl̩ dɪˈdʌkʃn̩ | ðəʧub biːn ˈaʊt ɪn ˈvaɪl ˈweðər | ən ðəʧu hæd ə pəˈtɪkjələli məˈlɪɡnənt | ˈbuːt ˈslɪtɪŋ ˈspesəmɪn | əv ðə ˈlʌndən ˈsleɪvi || ˈæz tə jɔː ˈpræktɪs | ɪf ə ˈʤentl̩mən ˈwɔːks ɪntə maɪ ˈruːmz | ˈsmelɪŋ əv aɪˈɒdəfɔːm | wɪð ə ˈblæk ˈmɑːk əv ˈnaɪtreɪt əv ˈsɪlvər | əˈpɒn ɪz ˈraɪt ˈfɔːfɪŋɡər | ən ə ˈbʌlʤ ɒn ðə ˈraɪt ˈsaɪd əv ɪz ˈtɒp ˈhæt | tə ˈʃəʊ weər iz sɪˈkriːtɪd ɪz ˈsteθəskəʊp | aɪ məs bi ˈdʌl ɪnˈdiːd | ɪf aɪ ˈdəʊmp prəˈnaʊns ɪm | tə bi ən ˈæktɪv ˈmembər | əv ðə ˈmedɪkl̩ prəˈfeʃn̩

“It is simplicity itself,” said he; “my eyes tell me that on the inside of your left shoe, just where the firelight strikes it, the leather is scored by six almost parallel cuts. Obviously they have been caused by someone who has very carelessly scraped round the edges of the sole in order to remove crusted mud from it. Hence, you see, my double deduction that you had been out in vile weather, and that you had a particularly malignant boot-slitting specimen of the London slavey. As to your practice, if a gentleman walks into my rooms smelling of iodoform, with a black mark of nitrate of silver upon his right forefinger, and a bulge on the right side of his top-hat to show where he has secreted his stethoscope, I must be dull, indeed, if I do not pronounce him to be an active member of the medical profession.”

A Scandal in Bohemia: Chapter 1, part 4

hɪz ˈmænə wəz ˈnɒt ɪˈfjuːsɪv || ɪt ˈseldəm ˈwɒz | bət i wəz ˈɡlæd aɪ ˈθɪŋk | tə ˈsiː mi || wɪð ˈhɑːdli ə ˈwɜːd ˈspəʊkən | bət wɪð ə ˈkaɪndli ˈaɪ | hi ˈweɪv mi tu ən ˈɑːmʧeə | ˈθruː əˈkrɒs ɪz ˈkeɪs əv sɪˈɡɑːz | ən ˈɪndɪkeɪtɪd ə ˈspɪrɪk ˈkeɪs | ən ə ˈɡæsəʤiːn | ɪn ðə ˈkɔːnə || ˈðen i ˈstʊb bɪˈfɔː ðə ˈfaɪə | ən ˈlʊk mi ˈəʊvər | ɪn ɪz ˈsɪŋɡjələr ˈɪntrəˈspektɪv ˈfæʃn̩

ˈwedlɒk ˈsuːts ju hi rɪˈmɑːkt || aɪ ˈθɪŋk | ˈwɒtsn̩ | ðəʧuv ˈpʊt ˈɒn ˈsevn̩ ən ə ˈhɑːf ˈpaʊnz | ˈsɪns aɪ ˈsɔː ju

ˈsevn̩ aɪ ˈɑːnsəd

ɪnˈdiːd | aɪ ʃəd ə ˈθɔːt ə ˈlɪtl̩ ˈmɔː || ˈʤʌst ə ˈtraɪfl̩ ˈmɔːr aɪ ˈfænsi ˈwɒtsn̩ || ən ɪm ˈpræktɪs əˈɡen aɪ əbˈzɜːv || ju ˈdɪdn̩ ˈtel mi | ðəʧu ɪnˈtendɪd tə ˈɡəʊ ɪntə ˈhɑːnɪs

ðen ˈhaʊ ʤu ˈnəʊ

aɪ ˈsiː ɪt || aɪ dɪˈʤuːs ɪt || ˈhaʊ du aɪ ˈnəʊ | ðəʧuv biːŋ ˈɡetɪŋ jəˈself ˈveri ˈwet ˈleɪtli | ən ðəʧu hæv ə ˈməʊs ˈklʌmzi əŋ ˈkeələs ˈsɜːvŋ̩k ˈɡɜːl

maɪ ˈdɪə ˈhəʊmz ˈsed ˈaɪ | ðɪs ɪz ˈtuː ˈmʌʧ || jud ˈsɜːtn̩li əv ˈbiːm ˈbɜːnd | həʤu ˈlɪvd ə ˈfjuː ˈsenʧriz əˈɡəʊ || ɪts ˈtruː ðət aɪ ˈhæd ə ˈkʌntri ˈwɔːk | ɒn ˈθɜːzdeɪ | əŋ ˈkeɪm ˈhəʊm | ɪn ə ˈdredfl̩ ˈmes | bət ˈæz aɪv ˈʧeɪnʤ maɪ ˈkləʊz | aɪ ˈkɑːnt ɪˈmæʤən | ˈhaʊ ju dɪˈʤuːs ɪt || ˈæz tə ˈmeəri ˈʤeɪn | ʃiz ɪŋˈkɒrɪʤəbl̩ | əm maɪ ˈwaɪf əz ˈɡɪvn̩ ə ˈnəʊtɪs | bət ˈðeər əˈɡen | aɪ ˈfeɪl tə ˈsiː | ˈhaʊ ju ˈwɜːk ɪt ˈaʊt

hi ˈʧʌkl̩d tu ɪmˈself | ən ˈrʌbd ɪz ˈlɒŋ ˈnɜːvəs ˈhænz təˈɡeðə

Doyle, Arthur Conan. The Original Illustrated Sherlock Holmes. “Reproduced from the original publication in The Strand Magazine with the classic illustrations by Sidney Paget.” Edison, New Jersey: Castle Books, [after 1954]. Internet Archive version of a copy donated by Friends of the San Francisco Library.  http://www.victorianweb.org/art/illustration/pagets/1.html

His manner was not effusive. It seldom was; but he was glad, I think, to see me. With hardly a word spoken, but with a kindly eye, he waved me to an armchair, threw across his case of cigars, and indicated a spirit case and a gasogene in the corner. Then he stood before the fire and looked me over in his singular introspective fashion.

“Wedlock suits you,” he remarked. “I think, Watson, that you have put on seven and a half pounds since I saw you.”

“Seven!” I answered.

“Indeed, I should have thought a little more. Just a trifle more, I fancy, Watson. And in practice again, I observe. You did not tell me that you intended to go into harness.”

“Then, how do you know?”

“I see it, I deduce it. How do I know that you have been getting yourself very wet lately, and that you have a most clumsy and careless servant girl?”

“My dear Holmes,” said I, “this is too much. You would certainly have been burned, had you lived a few centuries ago. It is true that I had a country walk on Thursday and came home in a dreadful mess, but as I have changed my clothes I can't imagine how you deduce it. As to Mary Jane, she is incorrigible, and my wife has given her notice, but there, again, I fail to see how you work it out.”

He chuckled to himself and rubbed his long, nervous hands together.

A Scandal in Bohemia: Chapter 1, part 3

ˈwʌn ˈnaɪt | ɪt wəz ɒn ðə ˈtwentiəθ əv ˈmɑːʧ | ˈeɪtiːn ˈeɪti ˈeɪt | aɪ wəz rɪˈtɜːnɪŋ frəm ə ˈʤɜːni tu ə ˈpeɪʃn̩t | fər aɪd ˈnaʊ rɪˈtɜːnd tə ˈsɪvl̩ ˈpræktɪs | wem maɪ ˈweɪ ˈleb mi θruː ˈbeɪkə ˈstriːt || əz aɪ ˈpɑːs ðə ˈwel rɪˈmembəd ˈdɔː | wɪʧ məst ˈɔːwɪz bi əˈsəʊsieɪtɪd ɪm ˈmaɪ ˈmaɪnd | wɪð maɪ ˈwuːɪŋ | ən wɪð ðə ˈdɑːk ˈɪnsədənts | əv ðə ˈstʌdi ɪn ˈskɑːlət | aɪ wəz ˈsiːzd wɪð ə ˈkiːn dɪˈzaɪə | tə ˈsiː ˈhəʊmz əˈɡen | ən tə ˈnəʊ ˈhaʊ i wəz ɪmˈplɔɪɪŋ | hɪz ɪkˈstrɔːdn̩ri ˈpaʊəz || hɪz ˈruːmz wə ˈbrɪliəntli ˈlɪt | ən ˈiːvn̩ əz aɪ ˈlʊkt ˈʌp | aɪ ˈsɔːr ɪz ˈtɔːl ˈspeə ˈfɪɡə | ˈpɑːs ˈtwaɪs | ɪn ə ˈdɑːk ˈsɪluˈet | əˈɡens ðə ˈblaɪnd || hi wəz ˈpeɪsɪŋ ðə ˈruːm ˈswɪfli | ˈiːɡəli | wɪð ɪz ˈhed ˈsʌŋk əˈpɒn ɪz ˈʧest | ən ɪz ˈhænz ˈklɑːsp bɪˈhaɪnd ɪm || tə ˈmiː | hu ˈnjuː ɪz ˈevri ˈmuːd ən ˈhæbɪt | hɪz ˈætəʧuːd əm ˈmænə | ˈtəʊl ðeər ˈəʊn ˈstɔːri || hi wəz ət ˈwɜːk əˈɡen || hid ˈrɪzn̩ ˈaʊt əv ɪz ˈdrʌɡ kriˈeɪtɪd ˈdriːmz | ən wəz ˈhɒt əˈpɒn ðə ˈsent | əv ˈsʌm ˈnjuː ˈprɒbləm || aɪ ˈræŋ ðə ˈbel | ən wəʒ ˈʃəʊn ˈʌp tə ðə ˈʧeɪmbə | wɪʧ əd ˈfɔːməli ˈbiːn ɪm ˈpɑːp maɪ ˈəʊn

One night—it was on the twentieth of March, 1888—I was returning from a journey to a patient (for I had now returned to civil practice), when my way led me through Baker Street. As I passed the well-remembered door, which must always be associated in my mind with my wooing, and with the dark incidents of the Study in Scarlet, I was seized with a keen desire to see Holmes again, and to know how he was employing his extraordinary powers. His rooms were brilliantly lit, and, even as I looked up, I saw his tall, spare figure pass twice in a dark silhouette against the blind. He was pacing the room swiftly, eagerly, with his head sunk upon his chest and his hands clasped behind him. To me, who knew his every mood and habit, his attitude and manner told their own story. He was at work again. He had risen out of his drug-created dreams and was hot upon the scent of some new problem. I rang the bell and was shown up to the chamber which had formerly been in part my own.

A Scandal in Bohemia: Chapter 1, part 2

ˈaɪd ˈsiːn ˈlɪtl̩ əv ˈhəʊmz | ˈleɪtli || maɪ ˈmærɪʤ əd ˈdrɪftɪd əs əˈweɪ frəm iːʧ ˈʌðə || maɪ ˈəʊŋ kəmˈpliːt ˈhæpinəs | ən ðə ˈhəʊm ˈsentəd ˈɪntrests | wɪʧ ˈraɪz ˈʌp əˈraʊn ðə ˈmæn | hu ˈfɜːs ˈfaɪnz ɪmˈself | ˈmɑːstər əv ɪz ˈəʊn ɪˈstæblɪʃmənt | wə səˈfɪʃn̩t tu əbˈzɔːb ˈɔːl maɪ əˈtenʃn̩ | ˈwaɪl ˈhəʊmz | hu ˈləʊðd ˈevri ˈfɔːm əv səˈsaɪəti | wɪð ɪz ˈhəʊl bəˈhiːmiən ˈsəʊl | rɪˈmeɪnd ɪn ɑː ˈlɒʤɪŋz | ɪm ˈbeɪkə ˈstriːt | ˈberid əˈmʌŋ ɪz ˈəʊl ˈbʊks | ən ˈɔːltəneɪtɪŋ | frəm ˈwiːk tə ˈwiːk | bɪˈtwiːŋ kəˈkeɪn | ən æmˈbɪʃn̩ | ðə ˈdraʊzinəs ə ðə ˈdrʌɡ | ən ðə ˈfɪəs ˈenəʤi | əv ɪz ˈəʊŋ ˈkiːn ˈneɪʧə || hi wəz ˈstɪl | ˈæz ˈevə | ˈdiːpli əˈtræktɪb baɪ ðə ˈstʌdi əv ˈkraɪm | ən ˈɒkjupaɪd ɪz ɪˈmens ˈfækl̩tiz | ən ɪkˈstrɔːdn̩ri ˈpaʊəz əv ˈɒbzəˈveɪʃn̩ | ɪn ˈfɒləʊɪŋ ˈaʊt ˈðəʊz ˈkluːz | əŋ ˈklɪərɪŋ ˈʌp ˈðəʊz ˈmɪstriz | wɪʧ əb biːn əˈbændənd əz ˈhəʊpləs | baɪ ði əˈfɪʃl̩ pəˈliːs || frəm ˈtaɪm tə ˈtaɪm | aɪ ˈhɜːd ˈsʌm ˈveɪɡ əˈkaʊnt əv ɪs ˈduːɪŋz | əv ɪz ˈsʌmənz tu əˈdesə | ɪn ðə ˈkeɪs ə ðə ˈtrepɒf ˈmɜːdə | əv ɪz ˈklɪərɪŋ ˈʌp | əv ðə ˈsɪŋɡjələ ˈtræʤədi | əv ði ˈækkɪnsm̩ ˈbrʌðəz | ət ˈtrɪŋkəməˈliː | ən ˈfaɪnəli | əv ðə ˈmɪʃn̩ wɪʧ id əˈkʌmplɪʃt | ˈsəʊ ˈdelɪkətli ən səkˈsesfl̩i | fə ðə ˈreɪnɪŋ ˈfæmli əv ˈhɒlənd || biˈɒn ˈðiːz ˈsaɪnz əv ɪz ækˈtɪvəti | haʊˈevə | wɪʧ aɪ ˈmɪəli ˈʃeəd wɪð ˈɔːl ðə ˈriːdəz ə ðə ˈdeɪli ˈpres | aɪ ˈnjuːˈlɪtl̩ əv maɪ ˈfɔːmə ˈfrend əŋ kəmˈpænjən

I had seen little of Holmes lately. My marriage had drifted us away from each other. My own complete happiness, and the home-centred interests which rise up around the man who first finds himself master of his own establishment, were sufficient to absorb all my attention, while Holmes, who loathed every form of society with his whole Bohemian soul, remained in our lodgings in Baker Street, buried among his old books, and alternating from week to week between cocaine and ambition, the drowsiness of the drug, and the fierce energy of his own keen nature. He was still, as ever, deeply attracted by the study of crime, and occupied his immense faculties and extraordinary powers of observation in following out those clues, and clearing up those mysteries which had been abandoned as hopeless by the official police. From time to time I heard some vague account of his doings: of his summons to Odessa in the case of the Trepoff murder, of his clearing up of the singular tragedy of the Atkinson brothers at Trincomalee, and finally of the mission which he had accomplished so delicately and successfully for the reigning family of Holland. Beyond these signs of his activity, however, which I merely shared with all the readers of the daily press, I knew little of my former friend and companion.

A Scandal in Bohemia: Chapter 1, part 1

tə ˈʃɜːlɒk ˈhəʊmz | ʃiz ˈɔːwɪz ˈðiː ˈwʊmən || aɪv ˈseldəm ˈhɜːd ɪm ˈmenʃn̩ ər | ˈʌndər ˈeni ˈʌðə ˈneɪm || ɪn ˈhɪz ˈaɪz | ʃi ɪˈklɪpsɪz əm prɪˈdɒmɪneɪts | ðə ˈhəʊl əv ɜː ˈseks || ɪt wəz ˈnɒt ðət i ˈfelt ˈeni ɪˈməʊʃn̩ | əˈkɪn tə ˈlʌv fər ˈaɪriːn ˈædlə || ˈɔːl ɪˈməʊʃn̩z | ən ˈðæt ˈwʌm pəˈtɪkjələli | wər əbˈhɒrənt | tu ɪz ˈkəʊld | prɪˈsaɪs | bət ˈæbmrəbli ˈbæləns ˈmaɪnd || hi ˈwɒz | aɪ ˈteɪk ɪt | ðə məʊs ˈpɜːfɪk ˈriːznɪŋ ən əbˈzɜːvɪŋ məˈʃiːn | ðət ðə ˈwɜːld əz ˈsiːn | bət əz ə ˈlʌvə | hi wʊd əv ˈpleɪst ɪmˈself | ɪn ə ˈfɒls pəˈzɪʃn̩ || hi ˈnevə ˈspəʊk ə ðə ˈsɒftə ˈpæʃn̩z | ˈseɪv wɪð ə ˈʤaɪb | ən ə ˈsnɪə || ðeɪ wər ˈæbmrəbl̩ ˈθɪŋz fə ði əbˈzɜːvə | ˈeksələnt fə ˈdrɔːrɪŋ ðə ˈveɪl | frəm ˈmenz ˈməʊtɪvz ən ˈækʃn̩z || bət fə ðə ˈtreɪnd ˈriːznə | tu əbˈmit ˈsʌʧ ɪnˈtruːʒn̩z | ɪntu ɪz ˈəʊn ˈdeləkət ən ˈfaɪnli əˈʤʌstɪd ˈtemprəmənt | wəz tu ˈɪntrəˈʤuːs ə dɪˈstræktɪŋ ˈfæktə | wɪʧ ˈmaɪt ˈθrəʊ ə ˈdaʊt | əˈpɒn ˈɔːl ɪz ˈmentl̩ rɪˈzʌlts || ˈɡrɪt ɪn ə ˈsensətɪv ˈɪnstrəmənt | ɔːr ə ˈkræk ɪn ˈwʌn əv ɪz ˈəʊn ˈhaɪ ˈpaʊə ˈlenzɪz | wʊd ˈnɒp bi ˈmɔː dɪˈstɜːbɪŋ | ðən ə ˈstrɒŋ ɪˈməʊʃn̩ | ɪn ə ˈneɪʧə ˈsʌʧ əz ˈhɪz || ən ˈjet ðə wəz bət ˈwʌn ˈwʊmən tə ˈhɪm | ən ˈðæt ˈwʊmən | wəz ðə ˈleɪt ˈaɪriːn ˈædlə | əv ˈʤuːbiəs əŋ ˈkwesʧənəbl̩ ˈmemri

To Sherlock Holmes she is always the woman. I have seldom heard him mention her under any other name. In his eyes she eclipses and predominates the whole of her sex. It was not that he felt any emotion akin to love for Irene Adler. All emotions, and that one particularly, were abhorrent to his cold, precise but admirably balanced mind. He was, I take it, the most perfect reasoning and observing machine that the world has seen, but as a lover he would have placed himself in a false position. He never spoke of the softer passions, save with a gibe and a sneer. They were admirable things for the observer—excellent for drawing the veil from men's motives and actions. But for the trained reasoner to admit such intrusions into his own delicate and finely adjusted temperament was to introduce a distracting factor which might throw a doubt upon all his mental results. Grit in a sensitive instrument, or a crack in one of his own high-power lenses, would not be more disturbing than a strong emotion in a nature such as his. And yet there was but one woman to him, and that woman was the late Irene Adler, of dubious and questionable memory.