Yesterday I jumped into Sherlock Holmes for the first time, and ever since then I’ve been splashing around happily like a large dog looking for a thrown stick in a lake but not especially caring if she finds it.
I did find this: the wind cried and sobbed like a child in the chimney.
I was delighted with that all day. What a wonderfully macabre image, a child stuffed up a chimney.
Not until this morning did my brain reparse the sentence into what Doyle probably intended it to mean: the wind cried and sobbed in the chimney, like a child crying and sobbing though it was not in the chimney.
Oh well. These are still great stories.
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