Explore "A Monk of Cruta" by E. Phillips Oppenheim on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
The situation, although it was only a brief one, was for a moment possessed of a singularly dramatic force. The grouping and the colouring in that dimly lit drawing-room were all that an artist could desire, and the facial expressions bordered upon the tragic. Of all men in the world, his brother was the last whom of his own choosing Paul would have wished to see.
There was a brief silence. Arthur, breathless through his hasty entrance, could only stand there upon the threshold, his face white to the lips, and his eyes flashing with passionate anger and dismay. To him the situation was more than painful; it was horrible. To have believed ill of Paul from hearsay would have been impossible; his confidence in his elder brother had been unbounded. He had always looked up to him as the mirror of everything that was honorable and chivalrous. Even now, perhaps there might be some explanation -- some partial explanation, at any rate. Paul was standing back amongst the shadows, and his face was only barely visible. Doubtless it was only surprise which held him silent. In a moment he would speak, and explain everything. It was this thought which loosened Arthur's tongue.