TO THE LIGHTHOUSEdefinite contribution to anything whatsoever isvery small, he said, pausing by the pear tree, wellbrushed, scrupulously exact, exquisitely judicial.Suddenly, as if the movement of his hand hadreleased it, the load of her accumulated impres-sions of him tilted up, and down poured in aponderous avalanche all she felt about him. Thatwas one sensation. Then up rose in a fume theessence of his being. That was another. Shefelt herself transfixed by the intensity of her per-ception; it was his severity; his goodness. Irespect you (she actually[%]addressed [∧]silentlyhim in person)in every atom; VW stray mark you are not vain; you are entirelyimpersonal; you are finer than Mr. Ramsay; youare the finest human being that I know; you haveneither wife nor child (without any sexual feeling,she longed to cherish that loneliness), you livefor science (involuntarily, sections of potatoesrose before her eyes); praise would be an insultto you; generous, pure-hearted, heroic man!SBut / l.c /imultaneously, without her willing it,[%]she remem-bered how he had brought a valet all the way uphere; objected to dogs on chairs; and[%]wouldprose for hours (until Mr. Ramsay slammed outof the room) about salt in vegetables and theiniquity of English cooks.

How then did it work out, all this? Howdid one judge people, think of them? How did42
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