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Stevenson, Robert Louis, 1850-1894

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

Of his
frame of mind at that moment his face offered a lively if an
unconscious picture. He was lividly pale, and his lip was caught
up in a smile that could almost be called a snarl, of a sheer, arid
malignity that appalled me and yet put me on my mettle for the
encounter. He looked me up and down, then bowed and took off his
hat to me.
'My cousin, I presume?' he said.
'I understand I have that honour,' I replied.
'The honour is mine,' said he, and his voice shook as he said it.
'I should make you welcome, I believe,' said I.
'Why?' he inquired. 'This poor house has been my home for longer
than I care to claim. That you should already take upon yourself
the duties of host here is to be at unnecessary pains. Believe me,
that part would be more becomingly mine. And, by the way, I must
not fail to offer you my little compliment. It is a gratifying
surprise to meet you in the dress of a gentleman, and to see'--with
a circular look upon the scattered bills--'that your necessities
have already been so liberally relieved.'
I bowed with a smile that was perhaps no less hateful than his own.
'There are so many necessities in this world,' said I. 'Charity
has to choose. One gets relieved, and some other, no less
indigent, perhaps indebted, must go wanting.'
'Malice is an engaging trait,' said he.


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906 brak hosta brak hosta 906 no host