THE WINDOWthings, her own inadequacy, her insignificance,[%](keeping house for her father off the BromptonRoad, growing old),[%]Parentheses are struck through separately. —peter.shillingsburgand had much ado to controlher impulse to fling herself (thank Heaven she hadalways resisted so far) at Mrs. Ramsay’s knee.[%]& say to her—but what could we sayto her?‘I’m in love with you’? No, that was not true.‘I’m in love with this all’ waving her hand at thehedge, at the house, at the children. It wasabsurd, it was impossible.Added at the foot of the page, lassoed and indicated to be inserted after “knee.” —peter.shillingsburgFor, with all her senses quickened as they were, itseemed to her again and again wonderful, thisworld, this garden; the Ramsay’s. It was herhappiest time in the year, everything seemed new;everything seemed strange. One felt that herewas a world where everything was different.Even the cups and saucers looked different; as forthe children and the Ramsays themselves, whatcould she say, except that she was in love withthem all? For it was all one thing.[%]So now it waswith relief that she laid her brushes neatly in thebox, side by side, and said to William Bankes:

"It suddenly gets cold. The sun seems togive less heat," she said, looking about her, for itwas bright enough, the grass still a soft deepgreen, the house starred in its greenery withpurple passion flowers, and rooks dropping coolcries from the high blue. But something moved,flashed, turned a silver wing in the air. It wasSeptember after all, the middle of September, andpast six in the evening. So off they strolled downthe garden in the usual direction, past the tennislawn, past the pampas grass, to that break in the35
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