Summary

Portrait of Robert Louis Stevenson Robert Louis Stevenson St. Ives: Being the Adventures of a French Prisoner in England

What advances I had made in the past, as a private soldier in a military prison, or a fugitive by the wayside, could only be qualified or, indeed, excused as acts of desperation. And now, I might come in by the front door; I might approach the dragon with a lawyer at my elbow, and rich settlements to offer. The poor French prisoner, Champdivers, might be in a perpetual danger of arrest; but the rich travelling Englishman, St.-Ives, in his post-chaise, with his despatch-box by his side, could smile at fate and laugh at locksmiths. I repeated the proverb, exulting, Love laughs at locksmiths!
Source: Gutenberg

Portrait of Robert Louis Stevenson Robert Louis Stevenson St. Ives: Being the Adventures of a French Prisoner in England

A wave of discretion went over me as cold and as deep as the sea.
‘In short, sir, this is a matter of feeling,’ I concluded, ‘and nothing will prevent my going to Edinburgh.’
If I had fired a pistol in his ear he could not have been more startled.
‘To Edinburgh?’ he repeated. ‘Edinburgh? where the very paving-stones know you!’
‘Then is the murder out!’ said I. ‘But, Mr. Romaine, is there not sometimes safety in boldness? Is it not a common-place of strategy to get where the enemy least expects you? And where would he expect me less?’
‘Faith, there is something in that, too!’ cried the lawyer.
Source: Gutenberg

Portrait of Robert Louis Stevenson Robert Louis Stevenson St. Ives: Being the Adventures of a French Prisoner in England

The sight of my cousin, the look of his face—so handsome, so jovial at the first sight, and branded with so much malignity as you saw it on the second—with his hyperbolical curls in order, with his neckcloth tied as if for the conquests of love, setting forth (as I had no doubt in the world he was doing) to clap the Bow Street runners on my trail, and cover England with handbills, each dangerous as a loaded musket, convinced me for the first time that the affair was no less serious than death.
Source: Gutenberg

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