TO THE LIGHTHOUSEfishing them up out of her mind by a phrase which,coming back from some party, she had made toamuse her husband. Dear, dear, Mrs. Ramsay saidto herself, how did they produce this incongruousdaughter? this tomboy Minta, with a hole in herstocking? How did she exist in that portentous at-mosphere where the maid was always removing ina dust-pan the sand that the parrot had scattered,and conversation was almost entirely reduced to theexploits—interesting perhaps, but limited after all—of that bird? Naturally, one had asked her tolunch, tea, dinner, finally to stay with them up atFinlay, which had resulted in some friction withthe Owl, her mother, and more calling, and moreconversation, and more sand, and really at the endof it, she had told enough lies about parrots to lasther a lifetime (so she had said to her husband thatnight, coming back from the party). However,Minta came . . . . Yes, she came, Mrs. Ramsaythought, suspecting some thorn in the tangle of thisthought; and disengaging it found it to be this: awoman had once accused her of "robbing her of herdaughter’s affections"; something Mrs. Doyle hadsaid made her remember that charge again. Wishingto dominate, wishing to interfere, making people dowhat she wished—that was the charge against her,and she thought it most unjust. How could she help88
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