Explore "The Mystery of Cloomber" by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
It was a quarter past ten o'clock by the parlour timepiece when my / father went off to his room, and left Esther and myself together. We / heard his slow steps dying away up the creaking staircase, until the / distant slamming of a door announced that he had reached his sanctum.
The simple oil lamp upon the table threw a weird, uncertain light over / the old room, flickering upon the carved oak panelling, and casting / strange, fantastic shadows from the high-elbowed, straight-backed / furniture. My sister's white, anxious face stood out in the obscurity / with a startling exactness of profile like one of Rembrandt's portraits.