"Yes, Mr. Holmes, it is as you say, sir. He does smoke
something terrible. All day and sometimes all night, sir.
I've seen that room of a morning -- well, sir, you'd have thought
it was a London fog. Poor young Mr. Smith, he was a smoker also,
but not as bad as the Professor. His health -- well, I don't
know that it's better nor worse for the smoking."
"Ah!" said Holmes, "but it kills the appetite."
"Well, I don't know about that, sir."
"I suppose the Professor eats hardly anything?"
"Well, he is variable. I'll say that for him."
"I'll wager he took no breakfast this morning, and won't face
his lunch after all the cigarettes I saw him consume."
"Well, you're out there, sir, as it happens, for he ate a remarkable
big breakfast this morning. I don't know when I've known him make
a better one, and he's ordered a good dish of cutlets for his lunch.
I'm surprised myself, for since I came into that room yesterday
and saw young Mr. Smith lying there on the floor I couldn't bear
to look at food. Well, it takes all sorts to make a world, and the
Professor hasn't let it take his appetite away.
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