TO THE LIGHTHOUSEat their best. Shabby and worn out, and not pre-sumably (her cheeks were hollow, her hair waswhite) any longer a sight that filled the eyes withjoy, she had better devote her mind to the storyof the Fisherman and his Wife and so pacify thatbundle of sensitiveness (none of her children wasas sensitive as he was), her son James.

"The man’s heart grew heavy," she read aloud,"and he would not go. He said to himself, ‘It is notright,’ and yet he went. And when he came to thesea the water was quite purple and dark blue,and grey and thick, and no longer so green andyellow, but it was still quiet. And he stood thereand said——"

Mrs. Ramsay could have wished that her husbandhad not chosen that moment to stop. Why had henot gone as he said to watch the children playingcricket? But he did not speak; he looked; he nod-ded; he approved; he went on. He slipped, seeingbefore him that hedge which had over and overagain rounded some pause, signified some con-clusion, seeing his wife and child, seeing again theurns with the trailing red geraniums which had sooften decorated processes of thought, and bore,written up among their leaves, as if they werescraps of paper on which one scribbles notes inthe rush of reading—he slipped, seeing all this,66
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