TIME PASSESours always. But alas, divine goodness, twitchingthe cord, draws the curtain; it does not pleasehim; he covers his treasures in a drench of hail,and so breaks them, so confuses them that itseems impossible that their calm should everreturn or that we should ever compose from theirfragments a perfect whole or read in the litteredpieces the clear words of truth. For our penitencedeserves a glimpse only; our toil respite only.

The nights now are full of wind and destruc-tion; the trees plunge and bend and their leavesfly helter skelter until the lawn is plastered withthem and they lie packed in gutters and chokerain pipes and scatter damp paths. Also the seatosses itself and breaks itself, and should anysleeper fancying that he might find on the beachan answer to his doubts, a sharer of his solitude,throw off his bedclothes and go down by himselfto walk on the sand, no image with semblance ofserving and divine promptitude comes readily tohand bringing the night to order and making theworld reflect the compass of the soul. The handdwindles in his hand; the voice bellows in his ear.Almost it would appear that it is useless in suchconfusion to ask the night those questions as towhat, and why, and wherefore, which tempt thesleeper from his bed to seek an answer.[(One dark morning,[%]Mr. Ramsay stumbling199 

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