THE WINDOWto think that Mrs. Ramsay would never know thereason of that pressure, she imagined how in thechambers of the mind and heart of the woman whowas, physically, touching her, were stood, like thetreasures in the tombs of kings, tablets bearingsacred inscriptions, which if one could spell themout, would teach one everything, but they wouldnever be offered openly, never made public. Whatart was there, known to love or cunning, by whichone pressed through into those secret chambers?What device for becoming, like waters poured intoone jar, inextricably the same, one with the objectone adored? Could the body achieve, or the mind,subtly mingling in the intricate passages of thebrain? or the heart? Could loving, as people calledit, make her and Mrs. Ramsay one? for it was notknowledge but unity that she desired, not inscrip-tions on tablets, nothing that could be written inany language known to men, but intimacy itself,which is knowledge, she had thought, leaning herhead on Mrs. Ramsay’s knee.

Nothing happened. Nothing! Nothing! as sheleant her head against Mrs. Ramsay’s knee. Andyet, she knew knowledge and wisdom were stored upin Mrs. Ramsay’s heart. How then, she had askedherself, did one know one thing or another thingabout people, sealed as they were? Only like a bee,79
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