TO THE LIGHTHOUSEwhich time had laid down, leaf upon leaf, foldupon fold softly, incessantly upon his brain; amongscents, sounds; voices, harsh, hollow, sweet; andlights passing, and brooms tapping; and the washand hush of the sea, how a man had marched upand down and stopped dead, upright, over them.Meanwhile, he noticed, Cam dabbled her fingers inthe water, and stared at the shore and said nothing.No, she won’t give way, he thought; she’s different,he thought. Well, if Cam would not answer him,he would not bother her Mr. Ramsay decided, feel-ing in his pocket for a book. But she would answerhim; she wished, passionately, to move someobstacle that lay upon her tongue and to say, Oh,yes, Frisk. I’ll call him Frisk. She wanted evento say, Was that the dog that found its way overthe moor alone? But try as she might, she couldthink of nothing to say like that, fierce and loyalto the compact, yet passing on to her father, unsus-pected by James, a private token of the love shefelt for him. For she thought, dabbling her hand(and now Macalister’s boy had caught a mackerel,and it lay kicking on the floor, with blood on itsgills) for she thought, looking at James who kepthis eyes dispassionately on the sail, or glanced nowand then for a second at the horizon, you’re notexposed to it, to this pressure and division of feeling,252
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