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Stevenson, Robert Louis, 1850-1894

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

'
Indeed, the rain was now grown to be a deluge; the gutters of the
house roared; the air was filled with the continuous, strident
crash. The stolidity of his face, on which the rain streamed, was
far from reassuring me. On the contrary, I was aware of a distinct
qualm of apprehension, which was not at all lessened by a view of
the driver, craning from his perch to observe us with the
expression of a fascinated bird. So we stood silent, when the
prisoner again began to sneeze from the body of the cart; and at
the sound, prompt as a transformation, the driver had whipped up
his horses and was shambling off round the corner of the house, and
Mr. Fenn, recovering his wits with a gulp, had turned to the door
behind him.
'Come in, come in, sir,' he said. 'I beg your pardon, sir; the
lock goes a trifle hard.'
Indeed, it took him a surprising time to open the door, which was
not only locked on the outside, but the lock seemed rebellious from
disuse; and when at last he stood back and motioned me to enter
before him, I was greeted on the threshold by that peculiar and
convincing sound of the rain echoing over empty chambers. The
entrance-hall, in which I now found myself, was of a good size and
good proportions; potted plants occupied the corners; the paved
floor was soiled with muddy footprints and encumbered with straw;
on a mahogany hall-table, which was the only furniture, a candle
had been stuck and suffered to burn down--plainly a long while ago,
for the gutterings were green with mould.


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