THE WINDOWHe could say things—she never could. So naturallyit was always he that said the things, and then forsome reason he would mind this suddenly, andwould reproach her. A heartless woman he calledher; she never told him that she loved him. Butit was not so—it was not so. It was only that shenever could say what she felt. Was there no crumbon his coat? Nothing she could do for him? Gettingup, she stood at the window with the reddish-brownstocking in her hands, partly to turn away from him,partly because she remembered how beautiful itoften is—the sea at night. But she knew that he hadturned his head as she turned; he was watching her.She knew that he was thinking, You are more beau-tiful than ever. And she felt herself very beautiful.Will you not tell me just for once that you love me?He was thinking that, for he was roused, what withMinta and his book, and its being the end of theday and their having quarrelled about going to theLighthouse. But she could not do it; she could notsay it. Then, knowing that he was watching her,instead of saying anything she turned, holding herstocking, and looked at him. And as she looked athim she began to smile, for though she had not saida word, he knew, of course he knew, that she lovedhim. He could not deny it. And smiling she looked185
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