TO THE LIGHTHOUSEcould not do. He found talking so much easierthan she did. He could say things—she nevercould. So naturally it was always he that said thethings, and then for some reason he would mindthis suddenly, and would reproach her. A heart-less woman he called her; she never told him thatshe loved him. But it was not so—it was not so.It was only that she never could say what she felt.Was there no crumb on his coat? Nothing shecould do[∧]?forhimGetting up she stood at the windowwith the reddish-brown stocking in her hands,partly to turn away from him, partly because sheremembered how beautiful it often is—the sea atnight. But she knew that he had turned his headas she turned; he was watching her. She knewthat he was thinking, You are more beautiful thanever. And she felt herself very beautiful. Willyou not tell me just for once that you love me?He was thinking that, for he was roused, what withMinta and his book, and its being the end of theday and their having quarrelled about going to theLighthouse. But she could not do it; she couldnot say it. Then, knowing that he was watchingher, instead of saying any thing she turned,holding her stocking, and looked at him. Andas she looked at him she began to smile, forthough she had not said a word, he knew, ofcourse he knew, that she loved him. He could190
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