THE LIGHTHOUSEhim over some absurd little thing. But now he hadnobody to talk to about that table, or his boots,or his knots; and he was like a lion seeking whomhe could devour, and his face had that touch of des-peration, of exaggeration in it which alarmed her,and made her pull her skirts about her. And then,she recalled, there was that sudden revivification,that sudden flare (when she praised his boots),that sudden recovery of vitality and interestin ordinary human things, which too passed andchanged (for he was always changing, and hid noth-ing) into that other final phase which was new toher and had, she owned, made herself ashamed ofher own irritability, when it seemed as if he hadshed worries and ambitions, and the hope of sym-pathy and the desire for praise, had entered someother region, was drawn on, as if by curiosity, indumb colloquy, whether with himself or another, atthe head of that little procession out of one’s range.An extraordinary face! The gate banged.III

So they’re gone, she thought, sighing with reliefand disappointment. Her sympathy seemed to becast back on her, like a bramble sprung across herface. She felt curiously divided, as if one part of her


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