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Journals of Dorothy Wordsworth, Vol. 1 (of 2)
·
Dorothy Wordsworth
305
We
caroused
our
cups
of
coffee,
laughing
like
children
at
the
strange
atmosphere
in
which
we
were:
the
smoke
came
in
gusts,
and
spread
along
the
walls
and
above
our
heads
in
the
chimney,
where
the
hens
were
roosting
like
light
clouds
in
the
sky.
We
laughed
and
laughed
again,
in
spite
of
the
smarting
of
our
eyes,
yet
had
a
quieter
pleasure
in
observing
the
beauty
of
the
beams
and
rafters
gleaming
between
the
clouds
of
smoke.
They
had
been
crusted
over
and
varnished
by
many
winters,
till,
where
the
firelight
fell
upon
them,
they
were
as
glossy
as
black
rocks
on
a
sunny
day
cased
in
ice.
When
we
had
eaten
our
supper
we
sate
about
half
an
hour,
and
I
think
I
had
never
felt
so
deeply
the
blessing
of
a
hospitable
welcome
and
a
warm
fire.
The
man
of
the
house
repeated
from
time
to
time
that
we
should
often
tell
of
this
night
when
we
got
to
our
homes,
and
interposed
praises
of
this,
his
own
lake,
which
he
had
more
than
once,
when
we
were
returning
in
the
boat,
ventured
to
say
was
"bonnier
than
Loch
Lomond."
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