test.txt

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.