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Doyle, Arthur Conan, Sir, 1859-1930

"The Mystery of Cloomber"

No good purpose could come from his
enlightenment; his age and his health demanded rest rather than anxiety;
and indeed, with the best will in the world I should have found it
difficult to explain to another what was so very obscure to myself.
For every reason I felt that it was best that he should be kept in the
dark.
Never in all my experience had I known a day pass so slowly as did that
eventful 5th of October. In every possible manner I endeavoured to
while away the tedious hours, and yet it seemed as if darkness would
never arrive.
I tried to read, I tried to write, I paced about the lawn, I walked to
the end of the lane, I put new flies upon my fishing-hooks, I began to
index my father's library--in a dozen ways I endeavoured to relieve the
suspense which was becoming intolerable. My sister, I could see, was
suffering from the same feverish restlessness.
Again and again our good father remonstrated with us in his mild way for
our erratic behaviour and the continual interruption of his work which
arose from it.
At last, however, the tea was brought, and the tea was taken, the
curtains were drawn, the lamps lit, and after another interminable
interval the prayers were read and the servants dismissed to their
rooms. My father compounded and swallowed his nightly jorum of
toddy, and then shuffled off to his room, leaving the two of us in the
parlour with our nerves in a tingle and our minds full of the most vague
and yet terrible apprehensions.


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