THE WINDOWitatively, that all those scattered about, in attics, inbedrooms, on little perches of their own, reading,writing, putting the last smooth to their hair, or fas-tening dresses, must leave all that, and the little oddsand ends on their washing-tables and dressing-tables,and the novels on the bed-tables, and the diarieswhich were so private, and assemble in the dining-room for dinner.XVII

But what have I done with my life? thought Mrs.Ramsay, taking her place at the head of the table,and looking at all the plates making white circles onit. "William, sit by me," she said. "Lily," she said,wearily, "over there." They had that—Paul Rayleyand Minta Doyle—she, only this—an infinitely longtable and plates and knives. At the far end, was herhusband, sitting down, all in a heap, frowning. Whatat? She did not know. She did not mind. She couldnot understand how she had ever felt any emotionor affection for him. She had a sense of being pasteverything, through everything, out of everything,as she helped the soup, as if there was an eddy—there—and one could be in it, or one could be outof it, and she was out of it. It's all come to an end,she thought, while they came in one after another,125
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