THE WINDOWnetting and separating one thing from another; shewould be saying she liked the Waverley novels orhad not read them; she would be urging herselfforward; now she said nothing. For the moment, shehung suspended.

"Ah, but how long do you think it’ll last?" saidsomebody. It was as if she had antennæ tremblingout from her, which, intercepting certain sentences,forced them upon her attention. This was one ofthem. She scented danger for her husband. A ques-tion like that would lead, almost certainly, to some-thing being said which reminded him of his ownfailure. How long would he be read—he would thinkat once. William Bankes (who was entirely freefrom all such vanity) laughed, and said he attachedno importance to changes in fashion. Who could tellwhat was going to last—in literature or indeed inanything else?

“Let us enjoy what we do enjoy," he said. Hisintegrity seemed to Mrs. Ramsay quite admirable.He never seemed for a moment to think, But howdoes this affect me? But then if you had the othertemperament, which must have praise, which musthave encouragement, naturally you began (and sheknew that Mr. Ramsay was beginning) to be un-easy; to want somebody to say, Oh, but your workwill last, Mr. Ramsay, or something like that. He161
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