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Stevenson, Robert Louis, 1850-1894

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

Upon the least dubiety, I will
take action.' He snuffed, looking critically at the tortured man.
'And now let me remind you that your chaise is at the door. This
interview is agitating to his lordship--it cannot be agreeable for
you--and I suggest that it need not be further drawn out. It does
not enter into the views of your uncle, the Count, that you should
again sleep under this roof.'
As Alain turned and passed without a word or a sign from the
apartment, I instantly followed. I suppose I must be at bottom
possessed of some humanity; at least, this accumulated torture,
this slow butchery of a man as by quarters of rock, had wholly
changed my sympathies. At that moment I loathed both my uncle and
the lawyer for their coldblooded cruelty.
Leaning over the banisters, I was but in time to hear his hasty
footsteps in that hall that had been crowded with servants to
honour his coming, and was now left empty against his friendless
departure. A moment later, and the echoes rang, and the air
whistled in my ears, as he slammed the door on his departing
footsteps. The fury of the concussion gave me (had one been still
wanted) a measure of the turmoil of his passions. In a sense, I
felt with him; I felt how he would have gloried to slam that door
on my uncle, the lawyer, myself, and the whole crowd of those who
had been witnesses to his humiliation.


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