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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.
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