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That early spring night, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, the greatest detective in London, and his assistant received a strange client.

Unlike those shiny leather shoes or high heels that I used to wear in the door, it was an embroidered shoe embroidered with peony patterns.

Then appeared at the door is a rare face-black hair, black eyes, mysterious oriental smile.

Holmes casually turned over the letter in his hand, which said that a "black-eyed customer" would visit at 22 1B Baker Street at eight o'clock sharp tonight, with the signature-

"Walter Ina Vernon," Holmes repeated. It's a strange name. He looked at the girl in front of him, the strange wide robe sleeves-and the huge foreskin behind her = = ||.

The girl didn't take out her hand, just bowed.

"Because I met you." The girl said it in not very authentic English.

But she can speak English after all, which makes the other two people breathe a sigh of relief. Watson quickly asked her to sit down-even though it was really inconvenient.

Watson's concern for women is really non-racial. I hope one day we can have a chance to meet Amazon's female customers, Holmes thought badly.

"Miss Vernon, what can I do? ...

It should be the whole book.