WHAT IS THE MOOD OF THIS PARAGRAPH? We travelled by the Underground as far as Aldersgate; and a short walk took us
to Saxe-Coburg Square, the scene of the singular story which we had listened
to in the morning. It was a poky, little, shabby-genteel place, where four lines of
dingy two-storied brick houses looked out into a small railed-in enclosure,
where a lawn of weedy grass, and a few clumps of faded laurel bushes made a
hard fight against a smoke-laden and uncongenial atmosphere. Three gilt balls
and a brown board with "Jabez Wilson" in white letters, upon a corner house,
announced the place where our red-headed client carried on his business.
Sherlock Holmes stopped in front of it with his head on one side and looked it
all over, with his eyes shining brightly between puckered lids. Then he walked
slowly up the street and then down again to the corner, still looking keenly at
the houses. Finally he returned to the pawnbroker's, and, having thumped
vigorously upon the pavement with his stick two or three times, he went up to
the door and knocked. It was instantly opened by a bright-looking,
clean-shaven young fellow, who asked him to step in.