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Updated: June 19, 2025
MY nearest way to Yarmouth, in coming back from these long walks, was by a ferry. It landed me on the flat between the town and the sea, which I could make straight across, and so save myself a considerable circuit by the high road. Mr. Peggotty's house being on that waste-place, and not a hundred yards out of my track, I always looked in as I went by.
To-day, a fortnight later, Randalin repeated the comment with a despondent addition: "It is the waste-place of ruins, and ruins have come to dwell in it. I can believe that it is no lie about the Fates to call them women, when they put like with like in so housewifely a manner."
She opened her eyes with a slight start, as if she had waked, half dazed, from some unfinished dream. "Oh, yes," she said. "I was making a picture, in a way I have. I was wondering what would happen to us, in our different paths, and trying to see. One of my aunts says it is 'Celtic' to do that. I saw you in a great waste-place, like a desert. And then I was there, too. We were together all alone.
"It is the waste-place of ruins," Elfgiva said on the day of their arrival, when the monk who guided them proudly identified the brick portions as fragments of the old Roman Temple to Apollo, the wooden door-posts as beams from the Saxon Seberht's refectory, and the stone walls as contributions from Dunstan's chapel, which the Danes of the year one thousand and twelve had reduced to a crumbling pile.
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