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Stevenson, Robert Louis, 1850-1894

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

In the sight of God, if you will
have it, I give you my name, I endow you with my money. If the
worst come, if I may never hope to call you wife, let me at least
think that you will use my uncle's legacy as my widow.'
'No, not that,' she said. 'Never that.'
'What then?' I said. 'What else, my angel? What are words to me?
There is but one name that I care to know you by. Flora, my love!'
'Anne!' she said.
What sound is so full of music as one's own name uttered for the
first time in the voice of her we love!
'My darling!' said I.
The jealous bars, set at the top and bottom in stone and lime,
obstructed the rapture of the moment; but I took her to myself as
wholly as they allowed. She did not shun my lips. My arms were
wound round her body, which yielded itself generously to my
embrace. As we so remained, entwined and yet severed, bruising our
faces unconsciously on the cold bars, the irony of the universe--or
as I prefer to say, envy of some of the gods--again stirred up the
elements of that stormy night. The wind blew again in the tree-
tops; a volley of cold sea-rain deluged the garden, and, as the
deuce would have it, a gutter which had been hitherto choked up
began suddenly to play upon my head and shoulders with the vivacity
of a fountain. We parted with a shock; I sprang to my feet, and
she to hers, as though we had been discovered.


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