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Stevenson, Robert Louis, 1850-1894

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


At my chamber door I took it from him with thanks, and entered
alone. Everything had been already disposed for the night, the
curtains drawn and the fire trimmed; and Rowley was still busy with
my bedclothes. He turned round as I entered with a look of welcome
that did my heart good. Indeed, I had never a much greater need of
human sympathy, however trivial, than at that moment when I held a
fortune in my arms. In my uncle's room I had breathed the very
atmosphere of disenchantment. He had gorged my pockets; he had
starved every dignified or affectionate sentiment of a man. I had
received so chilling an impression of age and experience that the
mere look of youth drew me to confide in Rowley: he was only a
boy, his heart must beat yet, he must still retain some innocence
and natural feelings, he could blurt out follies with his mouth, he
was not a machine to utter perfect speech! At the same time, I was
beginning to outgrow the painful impressions of my interview; my
spirits were beginning to revive; and at the jolly, empty looks of
Mr. Rowley, as he ran forward to relieve me of the box, St. Ives
became himself again.
'Now, Rowley, don't be in a hurry,' said I. 'This is a momentous
juncture. Man and boy, you have been in my service about three
hours. You must already have observed that I am a gentleman of a
somewhat morose disposition, and there is nothing that I more
dislike than the smallest appearance of familiarity.


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