TO THE LIGHTHOUSElooking at each other for a moment, had a sense ofescape and exaltation, what with the speed and thechange. But the breeze bred in Mr. Ramsay toothe same excitement, and, as old Macalister turnedto fling his line overboard, he cried out aloud,

“We perished," and then again, "each alone."And then with his usual spasm of repentance, orshyness, pulled himself up, and waved his handtowards the shore.

"See the little house,“ he said pointing,wishing Cam to look. She raised herself reluc-tantly and looked. But which was it? She couldno longer make out, there on the hillside, whichwas their house. All looked distant and peacefuland strange. The shore seemed refined, far away,unreal. Already the little distance they had sailedhad put them far from it and given it the changedlook, the composed look, of something receding inwhich one has no longer any part. Which wasoutsetgal64their house? She could not see it.

“But I beneath a rougher sea,” Mr. Ramsaymurmured. He had found the HB: Black pencil lassoed section. house and so seeingit, he had also seen himself there; he had seenhimself walking on the terrace, alone. He waswalking up and down between the urns; and heseemed to himself very old, and bowed. Sittingin the boat he bowed, he crouched himself, actinginstantly his part—the part of a desolate man,256
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