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Stevenson, Robert Louis, 1850-1894

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

No, not when I come
to look again, 'e don't seem to favour him noways.'
'Jackass!' said I, and I think the greatest stickler for manners
will admit the epithet to have been justified.
Meanwhile the appearance of my landlady added a great load of
anxiety to what I already suffered. It was plain that she had not
slept; equally plain that she had wept copiously. She sighed, she
groaned, she drew in her breath, she shook her head, as she waited
on table. In short, she seemed in so precarious a state, like a
petard three times charged with hysteria, that I did not dare to
address her; and stole out of the house on tiptoe, and actually ran
downstairs, in the fear that she might call me back. It was plain
that this degree of tension could not last long.
It was my first care to go to George Street, which I reached (by
good luck) as a boy was taking down the bank shutters. A man was
conversing with him; he had white stockings and a moleskin
waistcoat, and was as ill-looking a rogue as you would want to see
in a day's journey. This seemed to agree fairly well with Rowley's
signalement: he had declared emphatically (if you remember), and
had stuck to it besides, that the companion of the great Lavender
was no beauty.
Thence I made my way to Mr. Robbie's, where I rang the bell.


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