TO THE LIGHTHOUSEand their paths lying different ways, there had been,certainly for no one’s fault, some tendency, whenthey met, to repeat.

Yes. That was it. He finished. He turned from theview. And, turning to walk back the other way, upthe drive, Mr. Bankes was alive to things whichwould not have struck him had not those sandhillsrevealed to him the body of his friendship lyingwith the red on its lips laid up in peat—for instance,Cam, the little girl, Ramsay’s youngest daughter.She was picking Sweet Alice on the bank. She waswild and fierce. She would not "give a flower to thegentleman" as the nursemaid told her. No! no! no!she would not! She clenched her fist. She stamped.And Mr. Bankes felt aged and saddened and some-how put into the wrong by her about his friendship.He must have dried and shrunk.

The Ramsays were not rich, and it was a wonderhow they managed to contrive it all. Eight children!To feed eight children on philosophy! Here wasanother of them, Jasper this time, strolling past, tohave a shot at a bird, he said, nonchalantly, swingingLily’s hand like a pump-handle as he passed, whichcaused Mr. Bankes to say, bitterly, how she was afavourite. There was education now to be considered(true, Mrs. Ramsay had something of her own per-haps) let alone the daily wear and tear of shoes and36
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