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Stevenson, Robert Louis, 1850-1894

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

'Spare me!' he gasped.
I had not only been abominably frightened; I was shocked besides:
my delicacy was in arms, like a lady to whom violence should have
been offered by a similar monster. I plucked myself from his
horrid contact, I snatched the pistol--even discharged, it was a
formidable weapon--and menaced him with the butt. 'Spare you!' I
cried, 'you beast!'
His voice died in his fat inwards, but his lips still vehemently
framed the same words of supplication. My anger began to pass off,
but not all my repugnance; the picture he made revolted me, and I
was impatient to be spared the further view of it.
'Here,' said I, 'stop this performance: it sickens me. I am not
going to kill you, do you hear? I have need of you.'
A look of relief, that I could almost have called beautiful, dawned
on his countenance. 'Anything--anything you wish,' said he.
Anything is a big word, and his use of it brought me for a moment
to a stand. 'Why, what do you mean?' I asked. 'Do you mean that
you will blow the gaff on the whole business?'
He answered me Yes with eager asseverations.
'I know Monsieur de Saint-Yves is in it; it was through his papers
we traced you,' I said. 'Do you consent to make a clean breast of
the others?'
'I do--I will!' he cried. 'The 'ole crew of 'em; there's good
names among 'em.


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