TO THE LIGHTHOUSEtures. When life sank down for a moment, the rangeof experience seemed limitless. And to everybodythere was always this sense of unlimited resources,she supposed; one after another, she, Lily, Augus-tus Carmichael, must feel, our apparitions, thethings you know us by, are simply childish. Beneathit is all dark, it is all spreading, it is unfathomablydeep; but now and again we rise to the surface andthat is what you see us by. Her horizon seemed toher limitless. There were all the places she had notseen; the Indian plains; she felt herself pushingaside the thick leather curtain of a church in Rome.This core of darkness could go anywhere, for no onesaw it. They could not stop it, she thought, exult-ing. There was freedom, there was peace, there was,most welcome of all, a summoning together, a rest-ing on a platform of stability. Not as oneself did onefind rest ever, in her experience (she accom-plished here something dexterous with her needles)but as a wedge of darkness. Losing personality, onelost the fret, the hurry, the stir; and there rose toher lips always some exclamation of triumph overlife when things came together in this peace, thisrest, this eternity; and pausing there she looked outto meet that stroke of the Lighthouse, the longsteady stroke, the last of the three, which washer stroke, for watching them in this mood96
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