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Stevenson, Robert Louis, 1850-1894

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

Now you would say the lamps had been blown out from end to
end of the long thoroughfare; now, in a lull, they would revive,
re-multiply, shine again on the wet pavements, and make darkness
sparingly visible.
By the time I had got to the corner of the Lothian Road there was a
distinct improvement. For one thing, I had now my shoulder to the
wind; for a second, I came in the lee of my old prison-house, the
Castle; and, at any rate, the excessive fury of the blast was
itself moderating. The thought of what errand I was on re-awoke
within me, and I seemed to breast the rough weather with increasing
ease. With such a destination, what mattered a little buffeting of
wind or a sprinkle of cold water? I recalled Flora's image, I took
her in fancy to my arms, and my heart throbbed. And the next
moment I had recognised the inanity of that fool's paradise. If I
could spy her taper as she went to bed, I might count myself lucky.
I had about two leagues before me of a road mostly uphill, and now
deep in mire. So soon as I was clear of the last street lamp,
darkness received me--a darkness only pointed by the lights of
occasional rustic farms, where the dogs howled with uplifted heads
as I went by. The wind continued to decline: it had been but a
squall, not a tempest. The rain, on the other hand, settled into a
steady deluge, which had soon drenched me thoroughly.


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