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Stevenson, Robert Louis, 1850-1894

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

In the course of
this I became interested in one for whom this ovation began to
assume the proportions of a triumph; not only the under-servants,
but the barmaid, the landlady, and my friend the postmaster
himself, crowding about the steps to speed his departure. I was
aware, at the same time, of a good deal of merriment, as though the
traveller were a man of a ready wit, and not too dignified to air
it in that society. I leaned forward with a lively curiosity; and
the next moment I had blotted myself behind the teapot. The
popular traveller had turned to wave a farewell; and behold! he was
no other than my cousin Alain. It was a change of the sharpest
from the angry, pallid man I had seen at Amersham Place. Ruddy to
a fault, illuminated with vintages, crowned with his curls like
Bacchus, he now stood before me for an instant, the perfect master
of himself, smiling with airs of conscious popularity and
insufferable condescension. He reminded me at once of a royal
duke, or an actor turned a little elderly, and of a blatant bagman
who should have been the illegitimate son of a gentleman. A moment
after he was gliding noiselessly on the road to London.
I breathed again. I recognised, with heartfelt gratitude, how
lucky I had been to go in by the stable-yard instead of the
hostelry door, and what a fine occasion of meeting my cousin I had
lost by the purchase of the claret-coloured chaise! The next
moment I remembered that there was a waiter present.


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