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Stevenson, Robert Louis, 1850-1894

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

At intervals, when the wind
broke forth again, there passed overhead a wild coil of clashing
branches; and between whiles the whole enclosure continuously and
stridently resounded with the rain. I advanced close to the window
and contrived to read the face of my watch. It was half-past
seven; they would not retire before ten, they might not before
midnight, and the prospect was unpleasant. In a lull of the wind I
could hear from the inside the voice of Flora reading aloud; the
words of course inaudible--only a flow of undecipherable speech,
quiet, cordial, colourless, more intimate and winning, more
eloquent of her personality, but not less beautiful than song. And
the next moment the clamour of a fresh squall broke out about the
cottage; the voice was drowned in its bellowing, and I was glad to
retreat from my dangerous post.
For three egregious hours I must now suffer the elements to do
their worst upon me, and continue to hold my ground in patience. I
recalled the least fortunate of my services in the field: being
out-sentry of the pickets in weather no less vile, sometimes
unsuppered and with nothing to look forward to by way of breakfast
but musket-balls; and they seemed light in comparison. So
strangely are we built: so much more strong is the love of woman
than the mere love of life.


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