TO THE LIGHTHOUSEbrought a valet all the way up here; objected to dogson chairs; would prose for hours (until Mr. Ramsayslammed out of the room) about salt in vegetablesand the iniquity of English cooks.

How then did it work out, all this? How did onejudge people, think of them? How did one add upthis and that and conclude that it was liking one felt,or disliking? And to those words, what meaning at-tached, after all? Standing now, apparently trans-fixed, by the pear tree, impressions poured in uponher of those two men, and to follow her thought waslike following a voice which speaks too quickly tobe taken down by one’s pencil, and the voice washer own voice saying without prompting undeniable,everlasting, contradictory things, so that even thefissures and humps on the bark of the pear tree wereirrevocably fixed there for eternity. You have great-ness, she continued, but Mr. Ramsay has none ofit. He is petty, selfish, vain, egotistical; he is spoilt;he is a tyrant; he wears Mrs. Ramsay to death;but he has what you (she addressed Mr. Bankes)have not; a fiery unworldliness; he knows nothingabout trifles; he loves dogs and his children. He haseight. Mr. Bankes has none. Did he not come downin two coats the other night and let Mrs. Ramsaytrim his hair into a pudding basin? All of this dancedup and down, like a company of gnats, each sep-40
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