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Journals of Dorothy Wordsworth, Vol. 1 (of 2)
·
Dorothy Wordsworth
301
We
left
the
hut,
retracing
the
few
yards
of
road
which
we
had
climbed;
our
boat
lay
at
anchor
under
the
rock
in
the
last
of
all
the
compartments
of
the
lake,
a
small
oblong
pool,
almost
shut
up
within
itself,
as
several
others
had
appeared
to
be,
by
jutting
points
of
rock;
the
termination
of
a
long
out-shooting
of
the
water,
pushed
up
between
the
steps
of
the
main
shore
where
the
huts
stand,
and
a
broad
promontory
which,
with
its
hillocks
and
points
and
lesser
promontories,
occupies
the
centre
of
the
foot
of
the
lake.
A
person
sailing
through
the
lake
up
the
middle
of
it,
would
just
as
naturally
suppose
that
the
outlet
was
here
as
on
the
other
side;
and
so
it
might
have
been,
with
the
most
trifling
change
in
the
disposition
of
the
ground,
for
at
the
end
of
this
slip
of
water
the
lake
is
confined
only
by
a
gentle
rising
of
a
few
yards
towards
an
opening
between
the
hills,
a
narrow
pass
or
valley
through
which
the
river
might
have
flowed.
The
road
is
carried
through
this
valley,
which
only
differs
from
the
lower
part
of
the
vale
of
the
lake
in
being
excessively
narrow,
and
without
water;
it
is
enclosed
by
mountains,
rocky
mounds,
hills
and
hillocks
scattered
over
with
birch-trees,
and
covered
with
Dutch
myrtle
and
heather,
even
surpassing
what
we
had
seen
before.
Our
mother
Eve
had
no
fairer,
though
a
more
diversified
garden,
to
tend,
than
we
found
within
this
little
close
valley.
It
rained
all
the
time,
but
the
mists
and
calm
air
made
us
ample
amends
for
a
wetting.
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