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Stevenson, Robert Louis, 1850-1894

"St. Ives, Being the Adventures of a French Prisoner in England"

Praise God, we have gotten one that
is a treasure at the sleeping!'
The morning was already beginning to be blue in the trees of the
garden, and to put to shame the candle by which I had breakfasted.
The lady rose from table, and I had no choice but to follow her
example. All the time I was beating my brains for any means by
which I should be able to get a word apart with Flora, or find the
time to write her a billet. The windows had been open while I
breakfasted, I suppose to ventilate the room from any traces of my
passage there; and, Master Ronald appearing on the front lawn, my
ogre leaned forth to address him.
'Ronald,' she said, 'wasn't that Sim that went by the wall?'
I snatched my advantage. Right at her back there was pen, ink, and
paper laid out. I wrote: 'I love you'; and before I had time to
write more, or so much as to blot what I had written, I was again
under the guns of the gold eyeglasses.
'It's time,' she began; and then, as she observed my occupation,
'Umph!' she broke off. 'Ye have something to write?' she demanded.
'Some notes, madam,' said I, bowing with alacrity.
'Notes,' she said; 'or a note?'
'There is doubtless some finesse of the English language that I do
not comprehend,' said I.
'I'll contrive, however, to make my meaning very plain to ye, Mosha
le Viscount,' she continued.


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