TO THE LIGHTHOUSEso she felt that she was climbing backwardsupwards, shoving her way up under petals thatcurved over her, so that she only knew this iswhite, or this is red. She did not know at firstwhat the words meant at all.10 ptHB: Pencil line brackets poem to indicate 10 point type.Steer, hither steer your winged pines, all beaten Marinersshe read and turned the page, swinging herself,zigzagging this way and that, from one line toanother as from one branch to another, from onered and white flower to another, until a littlesound roused her—her husband slapping histhighs. Their eyes met for a second; but theydid not want to speak to each other. They hadnothing to say, but something seemed, neverthe-less, to go from him to her. It was the life, it wasthe power of it, it was the tremendous humour,she knew, that made him slap his thighs. Don’tinterrupt me, he seemed to be saying, don’t sayanything; just sit there. And he went on reading.His lips twitched. It filled him. It fortified him.He clean forgot all the little rubs and digs of theevening, and how it bored him unutterably to sitstill while people ate and drank interminably, andhis being so irritable with his wife and so touchyand minding when they passed his books over asif they didn’t exist at all. But now, he felt, itdidn't matter a damn who reached Z (if thought184
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