T0 THE LIGHTHOUSEbare legs, where it had struck when he was achild) and then made off, and there he was again,an old man, very sad, reading his book. That hewould kill, that he would strike to the heart. What-ever he did—(and he might do anything, he felt,looking at the Lighthouse and the distant shore)whether he was in a business, in a bank, a barrister,a man at the head of some enterprise, that he wouldfight, that he would track down and stamp out—tyranny, despotism, he called it—making people dowhat they did not want to do, cutting off their rightto speak. How could any of them say, But I won’t,when he said, Come to the Lighthouse. Do this.Fetch me that. The black wings spread, and thehard beak tore. And then next moment, there he satreading his book; and he might look up—one neverknew—quite reasonably. He might talk to theMacalisters. He might be pressing a sovereign intosome frozen old woman’s hand in the street, Jamesthought, and he might be shouting out at some fish-erman’s sports; he might be waving his arms in theair with excitement. Or he might sit at the head ofthe table dead silent from one end of dinnerto the other. Yes, thought James, while the boatslapped and dawdled there in the hot sun; there wasa waste of snow and rock very lonely and austere;and there he had come to feel, quite often lately,274
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