It must be sheer cliché to an outsider, Watson reflected, a man of mixed blood striving for marriage with a pale, blue-eyed blonde. Think of the children and all that rot. But Miss Mary Morstan was no more responsible for her bloodline than he was of his. That they had both been children in India was also negligible. Of far more importance was her character, her intelligence, her sweet demeanor.
And the way his heart soared when, with his ring on her finger, she looked at him and said, simply and earnestly, "When I look at you, I am home."