The sky was cloudless; it was still early in July, and pretty far north; in the darkest part of that night, you would have needed pretty good eyes to read, but for all that, I have often seen it darker in a winter mid-day.

Heavy dew fell and drenched the moor like rain; and this refreshed me for a while.

When we stopped to breathe, and I had time to see all about me, the clearness and sweetness of the night, the shapes of the hills like things asleep, and the fire dwindling away behind us, like a bright spot in the midst of the moor, anger would come upon me in a clap that I must still drag myself in agony and eat the dust like a worm.
By what I have read in books, I think few that have held a pen were ever really wearied, or they would write of it more strongly.

I had no care of my life, neither past nor future, and I scarce remembered there was such a lad as David Balfour.

I did not think of myself, but just of each fresh step which I was sure would be my last, with despair--and of Alan, who was the cause of it, with hatred.