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Stevenson, Robert Louis, 1850-1894

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

But a minute since, and it had
been trundling along like a lame cow; and now it was off as though
drawn by Apollo's coursers. There is no telling what a man can do,
until you frighten him!
It was as much as I could do myself, though I ran valiantly, to
maintain my distance; and that (since I knew my countrymen so near)
was become a chief point with me. A hundred yards farther on the
cart whipped out of the high-road into a lane embowered with
leafless trees, and became lost to view. When I saw it next, the
driver had increased his advantage considerably, but all danger was
at an end, and the horses had again declined into a hobbling walk.
Persuaded that they could not escape me, I took my time, and
recovered my breath as I followed them.
Presently the lane twisted at right angles, and showed me a gate
and the beginning of a gravel sweep; and a little after, as I
continued to advance, a red brick house about seventy years old, in
a fine style of architecture, and presenting a front of many
windows to a lawn and garden. Behind, I could see outhouses and
the peaked roofs of stacks; and I judged that a manor-house had in
some way declined to be the residence of a tenant-farmer, careless
alike of appearances and substantial comfort. The marks of neglect
were visible on every side, in flower-bushes straggling beyond the
borders, in the ill-kept turf, and in the broken windows that were
incongruously patched with paper or stuffed with rags.


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