THE LIGHTHOUSEbe out of bed by this time, she supposed, lookingat the house, but nothing appeared there. But then,she remembered, they had always made off directlya meal was over, on business of their own. It wasall in keeping with this silence, this emptiness, andthe unreality of the early morning hour. It was away things had sometimes, she thought, lingeringfor a moment and looking at the long glitteringwindows and the plume of blue smoke: they becameunreal. So coming back from a journey, or after anillness, before habits had spun themselves acrossthe surface, one felt that same unreality, whichwas so startling; felt something emerge. Life wasmost vivid then. One could be at one’s ease.Mercifully one need not say, very briskly, crossingthe lawn to greet old Mrs. Beckwith, who wouldbe coming out to find a corner to sit in, "Oh, good-morning, Mrs. Beckwith! What a lovely day! Areyou going to be so bold as to sit in the sun? Jasper’shidden the chairs. Do let me find you one!" andall the rest of the usual chatter. One need not speakat all. One glided, one shook one’s sails (there wasa good deal of movement in the bay, boats werestarting off) between things, beyond things. Emptyit was not, but full to the brim. She seemed to bestanding up to the lips in some substance, to moveand float and sink in it, yes, for these waters were285
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