THE LIGHTHOUSEa second. But whose boat? Mr. Ramsay’s boat, shereplied. Mr. Ramsay; the man who had marchedpast her, with his hand raised, aloof, at the headof a procession, in his beautiful boots, asking herfor sympathy, which she had refused. The boat wasnow half way across the bay.

So fine was the morning except for a streak ofwind here and there that the sea and sky lookedall one fabric, as if sails were stuck high up in thesky, or the clouds had dropped down into the sea.A steamer far out at sea had drawn in the air agreat scroll of smoke which stayed there curvingand circling decoratively, as if the air were a finegauze which held things and kept them softly inits mesh, only gently swaying them this way andthat. And as happens sometimes when the weatheris very fine, the cliffs looked as if they were con-scious of the ships, and the ships looked as if theywere conscious of the cliffs, as if they signalled toeach other some message of their own. For some-times quite close to the shore, the Lighthouse lookedthis morning in the haze an enormous distance away.

“Where are they now?" Lily thought, lookingout to sea. Where was he, that very old man whohad gone past her silently, holding a brown paperparcel under his arm? The boat was in the middleof the bay.271

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