His friends were those of his own blood or those whom he had known the longest; his affections, like ivy, were the growth of time, they implied no aptness in the object.
Robert Louis StevensonWhen I suffer in mind, stories are my refuge; I take them like opium; and consider one who writes them as a sort of doctor of the mind.
Robert Louis StevensonI am told there are people who do not care for maps, and I find it hard to believe.
Robert Louis Stevenson