TO THE LIGHTHOUSEhard to get, the house had not been cleaned as shecould have wished. It was beyond one person’sstrength to get it straight now. She was too old. Herlegs pained her. All those books needed to be laidout on the grass in the sun; there was plaster fallenin the hall; the rain-pipe had blocked over the studywindow and let the water in; the carpet was ruinedquite. But people should come themselves; theyshould have sent somebody down to see. For therewere clothes in the cupboards; they had left clothesin all the bedrooms. What was she to do with them?They had the moth in them—Mrs. Ramsay’sthings. Poor lady! She would never want themagain. She was dead, they said; years ago, in Lon-don. There was the old grey cloak she wore garden-ing (Mrs. McNab fingered it). She could see her, asshe came up the drive with the washing, stoopingover her flowers (the garden was a pitiful sight now,all run to riot, and rabbits scuttling at you out of thebeds)—she could see her with one of the childrenby her in that grey cloak. There were boots andshoes; and a brush and comb left on the dressing-table, for all the world as if she expected to comeback tomorrow. (She had died very sudden at theend, they said.) And once they had been coming,but had put off coming, what with the war, andtravel being so difficult these days; they had never204
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