TO THE LIGHTHOUSE“Lily," she said, wearily, "over there." Theyhad that—Paul Rayley and Minta Doyle—she,only this—an infinitely long table and plates andknives. At the far end, was her husband, sittingdown, all in a heap, frowning. What at? Shedid not know. She did not mind. She couldnot understand how she had ever felt[∧]anyemotion oraffection for him. She had a sense of being pasteverything, through everything, out of everything,as she helped the soup, as if there was an eddy(——)there—and one could be in it, or one could beout of it, and she was out of it. It’s all come toan end, she thought, while they came in one afteranother, Charles Tansley—"Sit there, please,"she said—Augustus Carmichael—and sat down.VW: Stray mark ink transfer from p.131And meanwhile she waited, passively, for some-one to answer her, for something to happen. Butthis is not a thing, she thought, ladling out soup,that one says.

Raising her eyebrows at the discrepancy—thatwas what she was thinking, this was what shewas doing—ladling out soup—she felt, more andmore strongly, outside that eddy; or as if a shadehad fallen, and, robbed of colour, she saw thingstruly. The room (she looked round it) was veryshabby. There was no beauty anywhere. Sheforebore to look at Mr. Tansley. Nothingseemed to have merged. They all sat separate.130
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