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Stevenson, Robert Louis, 1850-1894

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

I have forgotten the details; no doubt they were high-
coloured. No doubt I rejoiced to fool these jolter-heads; and no
doubt the sense of security that I drank from their dull, gasping
faces encouraged me to proceed extremely far. And for my sins,
there was one silent little man at table who took my story at the
true value. It was from no sense of humour, to which he was quite
dead. It was from no particular intelligence, for he had not any.
The bond of sympathy, of all things in the world, had rendered him
clairvoyant.
Dinner was no sooner done than I strolled forth into the streets
with some design of viewing the cathedral; and the little man was
silently at my heels. A few doors from the inn, in a dark place of
the street, I was aware of a touch on my arm, turned suddenly, and
found him looking up at me with eyes pathetically bright.
'I beg your pardon, sir; but that story of yours was particularly
rich. He--he! Particularly racy,' said he. 'I tell you, sir, I
took you wholly! I SMOKED you! I believe you and I, sir, if we
had a chance to talk, would find we had a good many opinions in
common. Here is the "Blue Bell," a very comfortable place. They
draw good ale, sir. Would you be so condescending as to share a
pot with me?'
There was something so ambiguous and secret in the little man's
perpetual signalling, that I confess my curiosity was much aroused.


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