TO THE LIGHTHOUSELily repeated, turning back, reluctantly again, toher canvas. Heaven be praised for it, theproblem of space remained, she thought, takingup her brush again. [∧]Itglaredather VW: Marginal note lacks period; marked by a brace and line to caret indicating position. —peter.shillingsburgThe whole mass of thepicture was poised upon that weight. Beautifuland bright it should be on the surface, featheryand evanescent, one colour melting into anotherlike the colours on a butterfly's wing; but beneaththe fabric must be clamped together with bolts ofiron. It was to be a thing you could ruffle withyour breath; and a thing you could not dislodgewith a team of horses. And she began to lay ona red, a grey, and she began to model her wayinto the hollow there. At the same time, sheseemed to be sitting beside Mrs. Ramsay on thebeach.

“Is it a boat? Is it a cask?” Mrs. Ramsaysaid. And she began hunting round for herspectacles. And she sat, having found them,silent, looking out to sea. And Lily, paintingsteadily, felt as if a door had opened, and one wentin and stood gazing silently about in a highcathedral-like place, very dark, very solemn.Shouts came from a world far away. Steamersvanished in stalks of smoke on the horizon.Charles threw stones and sent them skipping.

Mrs. Ramsay sat silent. She was glad, Lilythought, to rest in silence, uncommunicative; to264
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