"No matter, Watson," aspirated Holmes with asperity, conveying to me his bespawled ski goggles for instant refurbishment,"that the Case of the Interdigitated Virgins languishes sub judice, for I now fathom that this very dunderhead Schlomo - funicular guy and failed funambulist - was none other than that aforementioned rapacious abductor of those frangible ornaments of womanhood - and that the evil swine Moriarty, with whom I shall ever remain at loggerheads, is therefore still at large, wreaking havoc, and that most heinously; but hold - I surcease - my noetic prescience sees him now, rappelling down a cliff tramontane . . . we must not disdain to traverse the karst and apprehend him before he subjects those maidens to a veritably labyrinthine game of strip conquian - or is my inane if sedulous obscurantism quite beyond you, dear fellow? . . . [lacuna] . . . soothe with liniment the lineaments of my pallid brow, there’s a good chap, that would be altogether apposite, don’t you know?"