TO THE LIGHTHOUSEroar, with a rupture, as after centuries of quiescence,a rock rends itself from the mountain and hurtlescrashing into the valley, one fold of the shawlloosened and swung to and fro. Then again peacedescended; and the shadow wavered; light bent toits own image in adoration on the bedroom wall; andMrs. McNab, tearing the veil of silence with handsthat had stood in the wash-tub, grinding it withboots that had crunched the shingle, came asdirected to open all windows, and dust the bedrooms.V

As she lurched (for she rolled like a ship at sea)and leered (for her eyes fell on nothing directly,but with a sidelong glance that deprecated the scornand anger of the world—she was witless, she knewit), as she clutched the banisters and hauled herselfupstairs and rolled from room to room, she sang.Rubbing the glass of the long looking-glass andleering sideways at her swinging figure a soundissued from her lips—something that had been gaytwenty years before on the stage perhaps, had beenhummed and danced to, but now, coming from thetoothless, bonneted, care-taking woman, was robbedof meaning, was like the voice of witlessness,humour, persistency itself, trodden down but spring-196
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