The fog was like a saffron blanket soaked in ice water. It had hung over London all day and at last was beginning to descend. The sky was yellow as a duster and the rest was a granular black, overprinted in grey and lightened by occasional slivers of bright fish colour as a policeman turned in his wet cape. (The Tiger in the Smoke)
Everything in this affair is strange, my friend, but take my word for it, the strangeness you know about is nothing to the strangeness that awaits you. (The Mystery of the Yellow Room)
