TO THE LIGHTHOUSEtwo closer to him; a man, any man, would staunchthis effusion, would stop these lamentations. Awoman, she had provoked this horror; a woman, sheshould have known how to deal with it. It was im-mensely to her discredit, sexually, to stand theredumb. One said—what did one say?—Oh, Mr. Ram-say! Dear Mr. Ramsay! That was what that kindold lady who sketched, Mrs. Beckwith, would havesaid instantly, and rightly. But, no. They stoodthere, isolated from the rest of the world. His im-mense self-pity, his demand for sympathy pouredand spread itself in pools at her feet, and all she did,miserable sinner that she was, was to draw herskirts a little closer round her ankles, lest sheshould get wet. In complete silence she stood there,grasping her paint brush.

Heaven could never be sufficiently praised! Sheheard sounds in the house. James and Cam must becoming. But Mr. Ramsay, as if he knew that histime ran short, exerted upon her solitary figure theimmense pressure of his concentrated woe; his age;his frailty; his desolation; when suddenly, tossinghis head impatiently, in his annoyance—for afterall, what woman could resist him?—he noticed thathis boot-laces were untied. Remarkable boots theywere too, Lily thought, looking down at them:sculptured; colossal; like everything that Mr.228

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