THE WINDOWmaliciously twist; and, moving over to the window,in pretence that she must go,—it was dawn, shecould see the sun rising,—half turn back, more in-timately, but still always laughing, insist that shemust, Minta must, they all must marry, since in thewhole world whatever laurels might be tossed to her(but Mrs. Ramsay cared not a fig for her paint-ing), or triumphs won by her (probably Mrs. Ram-say had had her share of those), and here she sad-dened, darkened, and came back to her chair, therecould be no disputing this: an unmarried woman(she lightly took her hand for a moment), an un-married woman has missed the best of life. Thehouse seemed full of children sleeping and Mrs.Ramsay listening; shaded lights and regular breath-ing.

Oh, but, Lily would say, there was her father;her home; even, had she dared to say it, her paint-ing. But all this seemed so little, so virginal, againstthe other. Yet, as the night wore on, and white lightsparted the curtains, and even now and then somebird chirped in the garden, gathering a desperatecourage she would urge her own exemption fromthe universal law; plead for it; she liked to bealone; she liked to be herself; she was not madefor that; and so have to meet a serious stare fromeyes of unparalleled depth, and confront Mrs. Ram-77
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