It was a cold winter Sunday afternoon.

Early one morning I, Vadim Maslennikov, set off for school (I was going on seventeen at the time) having forgotten the envelope with the first-semester fees Mother had left me in the dining room the day before.

Obeying an inalienable law, things grew, spreading riotous and strange in their instinct for growth.

To stretch his legs between consultations, Maclean escorted his last patient to Baker Street station.

"Christmas won't be Christmas without any presents," grumbled Jo, lying on the rug.

"Please, sir, is this Plumfield?" asked a ragged boy of the man who opened the great gate at which the omnibus left him.