A fantasy novel by George MacDonald

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if path it could now be called, led me. With great difficulty I accomplished these last few yards, and came forth to the day. I stood on the shore of a wintry sea, with a wintry sun just a few feet above its horizon-edge. It was bare, and waste, and grey. Hundreds of hopeless waves rushed constantly shorewards, falling exhausted upon a beach of great loose stones, that seemed to stretch miles and miles in both directions. There was nothing for the eye but mingling shades of grey; nothing for the ear but the rush of the coming, the roar of the breaking, and the moan of the retreating wave. No rock lifted up a sheltering severity above the dreari­ness around; even that from which I had myself emerged rose scarcely a foot above the opening by which I had reached the dismal day, more dis­mal even than the tomb I had left. A cold, death-like wind swept across the shore, seeming to issue from a pale mouth of cloud upon the horizon. Sign of life was nowhere visible. I wandered over the stones, up and down the beach, a human'embodi-ment of the nature around me. The wind increased; its keen waves flowed through my soul; the foam rushed higher up the stones ; a few dead stars began to gleam in the east; the sound of the waves grew
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