THE WINDOWthis, naturally they did not care for him either. Oneought not to complain, thought Mr. Ramsay, tryingto stifle his desire to complain to his wife that youngmen did not admire him. But he was determined; hewould not bother her again. Here he looked at herreading. She looked very peaceful, reading. He likedto think that every one had taken themselves off andthat he and she were alone. The whole of life didnot consist in going to bed with a woman, hethought, returning to Scott and Balzac, to theEnglish novel and the French novel.

Mrs. Ramsay raised her head and like a personin a light sleep seemed to say that if he wanted herto wake she would, she really would, but otherwise,might she go on sleeping, just a little longer, just alittle longer? She was climbing up those branches,this way and that, laying hands on one flower andthen another.

"Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose," sheread, and so reading she was ascending, she felt, onto the top, on to the summit. How satisfying! Howrestful! All the odds and ends of the day stuck tothis magnet; her mind felt swept, felt clean. Andthen there it was, suddenly entire; she held it in herhands, beautiful and reasonable, clear and complete,the essence sucked out of life and held roundedhere—the sonnet.181

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