THE WINDOWhis life. But in that one sentence lay compact,like gunpowder, that his grandfather was afisherman; his father a chemist; that he hadworked his way up entirely himself; that he wasproud of it; that he was Charles Tansley—a factthat nobody there seemed to realise; but one ofthese days every single person would know it.He scowled ahead of him. He could almost pitythese mild cultivated people, who would be blownsky high, like bales of wool and barrels of apples,one of these days by the gunpowder that was inhim.

“Will you take me, Mr. Tansley?" said Lily,quickly, kindly, for, of course, if Mrs. Ramsay saidto her, as in effect she did, “I am drowning, mydear, in seas of fire. Unless you apply some balmto the anguish of this hour and say something nice[%]to that poor young man there, life will run upon therocks—indeed I hear the grating and the growlingat this minute. My nerves are taut as fiddlestrings. Another touch and they will snap”—when Mrs. Ramsay said all this, as the glance inher eyes said it, of course for the hundred andfiftieth time Lily Briscoe had to renounce thistheexperiment—what happens if sheoneis not nice tothat young man there, and be nice.

Judging the turn in her mood correctly—thatshe was friendly to him now—he was relieved of143
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