It was a wild, tempestuous night toward the close of November. Outside, the wind howled down Baker Street while the rain beat fiercely against the windows. Sherlock Holmes and I had sat in silence all the evening, he deep in a volume upon diabetes which had been sent to me for review, I dreaming over my Afghan experiences. Finally, Holmes passed me the book and drew his chair closer to the fire. While I examined the work, he smoked another pipe of his shag tobacco.
"Well, Watson, what do you make of it?"
"I think," said I, following as far as I could the methods of my companion, "that the author has written a handbook for the patient. In simple, easily understood language, he outlines for the diabetic the latest knowledge he must have and the exact instructions he must follow in order to lead the most normal life possible.