Summary

Portrait of Robert Louis Stevenson Robert Louis Stevenson The Works of Robert Louis Stevenson - Swanston Edition…

The doctor shuddered. “They were crying it in the square,” he said. “I heard them in my dining-room.”
“One word,” said the lawyer. “Carew was my client, but so are you, and I want to know what I am doing. You have not been mad enough to hide this fellow?”
“Utterson, I swear to God,” cried the doctor, “I swear to God I will never set eyes on him again. I bind my honour to you that I am done with him in this world. It is all at an end. And indeed he does not want my help; you do not know him as I do; he is safe, he is quite safe; mark my words, he will never more be heard of.”
Source: Gutenberg

Portrait of Robert Louis Stevenson Robert Louis Stevenson The Works of Robert Louis Stevenson - Swanston Edition…

You pain, you wound me, Somerset.”
“Give me a match!” cried Somerset wildly. “Let me set fire to this incomparable monster! Let me perish with him in his fall!”
“For God’s sake,” cried Zero, clutching hold of the young man, “for God’s sake command yourself! We stand upon the brink; death yawns around us; a man—a stranger in this foreign land—one whom you have called your friend——”
“Silence!” cried Somerset, “you are no friend, no friend of mine. I look on you with loathing, like a toad: my flesh creeps with physical repulsion; my soul revolts against the sight of you.”
Zero burst into tears.
Source: Gutenberg

Portrait of Robert Louis Stevenson Robert Louis Stevenson The Works of Robert Louis Stevenson - Swanston Edition…

Are you not aware that chemicals are proverbially fickle as woman, and clockwork as capricious as the very devil? Do you see upon my brow these furrows of anxiety? do you observe the silver threads that mingle with my hair? Clockwork, clockwork has stamped them on my brow—chemicals have sprinkled them upon my locks! No, Mr. Somerset,” he resumed, after a moment’s pause, his voice still quivering with sensibility, “you must not suppose the dynamiter’s life to be all gold. On the contrary: you cannot picture to yourself the bloodshot vigils and the staggering disappointments of a life like mine.
Source: Gutenberg

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