TO THE LIGHTHOUSEit would make all the difference. He went to theheart of things. He cared about fishermen andtheir wages. He could not sleep for thinking ofthem. It was altogether different when he spoke;one did not feel then, pray heaven you don't seehow little I care, because one did care. Then,realising that it was because she admired himso much that she was waiting for him to speak,she felt as if somebody had been praising herhusband to her and their marriage, and sheglowed all over without realising that it was sheherself who had praised him. She looked at himthinking to find this in his face; he would belooking magnificent. . . . But not in the least! Hewas screwing his face up, he was scowling andfrowning, and flushing with anger. What on[%]earth was it all about? she wondered. What couldbe the matter? Only that poor old Augustus hadasked for another plate of soup—that was all. Itwas unthinkable, it was detestable (so he signalledto her across the table) that Augustus should bebeginning dinnerhissoupover again. He loathed peopleeating when he had finished. She saw his angerfly like a pack of hounds into his eyes, his brow,and she knew that in a moment something violentwould explode, and then—but thank goodness!she saw him clutch himself and clap a brake on thewheel, and the whole of his body seemed to emit148
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