The of the Beryl Coronet by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

"Holmes," said I, as I stood one morning in our bow-window looking down / the street, "here is a madman coming along. It seems rather sad that / his relatives should allow him to come out alone."

My friend rose lazily from his arm-chair and stood with his hands in / the pockets of his dressing-gown, looking over my shoulder. It was a / bright, crisp February morning, and the snow of the day before still / lay deep upon the ground, shimmering brightly in the wintry sun. Down / the centre of Baker Street it had been ploughed into a brown crumbly / band by the traffic, but at either side and on the heaped-up edges of / the foot-paths it still lay as white as when it fell. The gray pavement / had been cleaned and scraped, but was still dangerously slippery, so / that there were fewer passengers than usual. Indeed, from the direction / of the Metropolitan Station no one was coming save the single gentleman / whose eccentric conduct had drawn my attention.