Explore "Mr. Marx's Secret" by E. Phillips Oppenheim on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
I was alone with my father in the kitchen, and he was looking as I had never seen him look before. It was late in the afternoon -- as near as I can remember, about six weeks after the news had reached us of Mr. Ravenor's wonderful adventures. He had just come in for tea, flushed with toil and labouring in the hot sun. But as he stood on the flags before me, reading a letter which had been sent up from the village, the glow seemed to die out from his face and his strong, rough hands trembled.
"It's a lie! " I heard him mutter to himself, in a hoarse whisper -- "a wicked lie!"