THE LIGHTHOUSEwith which she went. Lily squeezed her tubesagain. She attacked that problem of the hedge.)[%]It was strange how clearly she saw her, steppingwith her usual quickness across fields among tw /hosefolds, purplish and soft, among whose flowers,hyacinths or lilies, she vanished. It was sometrick of the painter’s eye. For days after she hadheard of her death she had seen her thus, puttingher wreath to her fo[∧]r /ehead and going unquestion-ingly with her companion, [∧]a shadeacross the fields. Thesight, the phrase, had its power to console.Wherever she happened to be, painting, here, inthe country or in London, the vision would cometo her, [∧]andher eyes, half closing, sought somethingto base her vision on. She looked down the rail-way carriage, the omnibus; took a line fromshoulder or cheek; looked at the windowsopposite; at Piccadilly, lamp-strung in theevening. All had been part of the fields of death.But always something—it might be a face, a voice,a paper boy crying Standard, News—thrustthrough, snubbed her, waked her, required andgot in the end an effort of attention, so that thevision must be perpetually remade. Now again,moved as she was by some instinctive need ofdistance and blue, she looked at the bay beneathher, making hillocks of the blue bars of the waves,and stony fields of the purpler spaces, [∧]againshe was279
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