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Stevenson, Robert Louis, 1850-1894

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


'I beg your pardon, sir: do I understand you to invite me to your
house?' said I.
'That was the idea I was trying to convey,' said he. 'We have the
name of hospitable people up here, and I would like you to try
mine.'
'Mr. Robbie, I shall hope to try it some day, but not yet,' I
replied. 'I hope you will not misunderstand me. My business,
which brings me to your city, is of a peculiar kind. Till you
shall have heard it, and, indeed, till its issue is known, I should
feel as if I had stolen your invitation.'
'Well, well,' said he, a little sobered, 'it must be as you wish,
though you would hardly speak otherwise if you had committed
homicide! Mine is the loss. I must eat alone; a very pernicious
thing for a person of my habit of body, content myself with a pint
of skinking claret, and meditate the discourse. But about this
business of yours: if it is so particular as all that, it will
doubtless admit of no delay.'
'I must confess, sir, it presses,' I acknowledged.
'Then, let us say to-morrow at half-past eight in the morning,'
said he; 'and I hope, when your mind is at rest (and it does you
much honour to take it as you do), that you will sit down with me
to the postponed meal, not forgetting the bottle. You have my
address?' he added, and gave it me--which was the only thing I
wanted.


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