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During the several years that I resided at Baker Street, I became the possessor of precious memories concerning dozens of investigations conducted by my friend Sherlock Holmes. These adventures brought little material prosperity to either my friend or, even less so, myself. Nevertheless, when I married and moved away from Baker Street, I took with me a small wooden box containing various mementos. They held no value for Holmes' catalogues and card indexes, but they were dear to me as reminders of several intriguing cases solved by my friend.
Sometimes I open this box, extract one of the souvenirs, and reminisce about the mysterious events in which I had the chance to participate. Here I am now, the carved lid of the box thrown back, holding in my hand a folded sheet torn from an ancient folio. It is difficult to say how many times I have recalled the events of this investigation. Initially, I marveled at Holmes' perspicacity and resourcefulness in deducing what had transpired at the manor and unraveling the case. Later, to my admiration was added the desire to retain in memory the details of that secret I had learned. And then emerged the duty of a chronicler to preserve the knowledge and complete my account before the "last syllable of recorded time" is written.
I unfold the sheet, and the angular script of the manuscript arrests my gaze. As often happens near ancient texts, the passage of time seems to alter, I become pensive, and memories transport me to the year 1895.
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