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Stevenson, Robert Louis, 1850-1894

"Weir of Hermiston"

She was never backward to admire herself; that kind of modesty
was a stranger to her nature; and she paused, struck with a pleased
wonder at the sight. "Ye daft auld wife!" she said, answering a thought
that was not; and she blushed with the innocent consciousness of a
child. Hastily she did up the massive and shining coils, hastily donned
a wrapper, and with the rushlight in her hand, stole into the hall.
Below stairs she heard the clock ticking the deliberate seconds, and
Frank jingling with the decanters in the dining-room. Aversion rose in
her, bitter and momentary. "Nesty, tippling puggy!" she thought; and
the next moment she had knocked guardedly at Archie's door and was
bidden enter.
Archie had been looking out into the ancient blackness, pierced here and
there with a rayless star; taking the sweet air of the moors and the
night into his bosom deeply; seeking, perhaps finding, peace after the
manner of the unhappy. He turned round as she came in, and showed her a
pale face against the window-frame.


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