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Journals of Dorothy Wordsworth, Vol. 1 (of 2)
·
Dorothy Wordsworth
294
We
took
leave
of
the
family
with
regret:
they
were
handsome,
healthy,
and
happy-looking
people.
It
was
ten
o'clock
when
we
departed.
We
had
learned
that
there
was
a
ferry-boat
kept
at
three
miles'
distance,
and
if
the
man
was
at
home
he
would
row
us
down
the
lake
to
the
Trossachs.
Our
walk
was
mostly
through
coppice-woods,
along
a
horse-road,
upon
which
narrow
carts
might
travel.
Passed
that
white
house
which
had
looked
at
us
with
such
a
friendly
face
when
we
were
on
the
other
side;
it
stood
on
the
slope
of
a
hill,
with
green
pastures
below
it,
plots
of
corn
and
coppice-wood,
and
behind,
a
rocky
steep
covered
with
wood.
It
was
a
very
pretty
place,
but
the
morning
being
cold
and
dull
the
opposite
shore
appeared
dreary.
Near
to
the
white
house
we
passed
by
another
of
those
little
pinfold
squares,
which
we
knew
to
be
a
burying-place;
it
was
in
a
sloping
green
field
among
woods,
and
within
sound
of
the
beating
of
the
water
against
the
shore,
if
there
were
but
a
gentle
breeze
to
stir
it:
I
thought
if
I
lived
in
that
house,
and
my
ancestors
and
kindred
were
buried
there,
I
should
sit
many
an
hour
under
the
walls
of
this
plot
of
earth,
where
all
the
household
would
be
gathered
together.
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