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Mina Murray’s Journal

           Lucyhasnotwalkedmuchinhersleepthelastweek,butthereisanoddconcentrationaboutherwhichIdonotunderstand,eveninhersleepsheseemstobewatchingme. Shetriesthedoor,andfindingitlocked,goesabouttheroomsearchingforthekey. 

           6August. Anotherthreedays,andnonews. Thissuspenseisgettingdreadful. IfIonlyknewwheretowritetoorwheretogoto,Ishouldfeeleasier. ButnoonehasheardawordofJonathansincethatlastletter. ImustonlypraytoGodforpatience. 

           Lucyismoreexcitablethanever,butisotherwisewell. Lastnightwasverythreatening,andthefishermensaythatweareinforastorm. Imusttrytowatchitandlearntheweathersigns. 

           Todayisagrayday,andthesunasIwriteishiddeninthickclouds,highoverKettleness. Everythingisgrayexceptthegreengrass,whichseemslikeemeraldamongstit,grayearthyrock,grayclouds,tingedwiththesunburstatthefaredge,hangoverthegraysea,intowhichthesandpointsstretchlikegrayfigures. Theseaistumblinginovertheshallowsandthesandyflatswitharoar,muffledinthesea-mistsdriftinginland. Thehorizonislostinagraymist. Allvastness,thecloudsarepileduplikegiantrocks,andthereisa‘brool’overtheseathatsoundslikesomepassageofdoom. Darkfiguresareonthebeachhereandthere,sometimeshalfshroudedinthemist,andseem‘menliketreeswalking’. Thefishingboatsareracingforhome,andriseanddipinthegroundswellastheysweepintotheharbour,bendingtothescuppers. HerecomesoldMr.Swales. Heismakingstraightforme,andIcansee,bythewayheliftshishat,thathewantstotalk. 

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