THE LIGHTHOUSEspace, while she modelled it with greens andblues.

Charles Tansley used to say that, she remem-bered, aboutwomencan't paint, can’t write. Coming upbehind her he had stood close beside her, a thingshe hated, as she painted here on this very spot.“Shag tobacco”, he said, "fivepence an ounce",parading his poverty, his principles. (But the warhad drawn the sting of her femininity. Poordevils, one thought,[∧]poordevilsof bothsexes VW: Line from caret to passage added in marginand that was about all ofpeople who got themselves into such messes.)Hewas always carrying a book about under his arm—a purple book. He "worked". He sat, sheremembered, working in a blaze of sun. Atdinner he would sit right in the middle of theview. But after all, she reflected, there was thescene on the beach. One must remember that.It was a windy morning. They had all gone downto the beach. Mrs. Ramsay sat down and wroteletters by a rock. She wrote and wrote. "O,”she said, looking up, at something floating in thesea, "is it a lobster pot? Is it an upturned boat?”She was so short-sighted that she could not see,and then Charles Tansley became as nice as hecould possibly be. He began playing ducks anddrakes. They chose little flat black stones andsent them skipping over the waves. Every nowand then Mrs. Ramsay looked up over her247
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