TO THE LIGHTHOUSEhis coffee, took his cup and made off to sit in thesun. The extraordinary unreality was frightening;but it was also exciting. Going to the Lighthouse.But what does one send to the Lighthouse? Perished.Alone. The grey-green light on the wall opposite.The empty places. Such were some of the parts, buthow bring them together? she asked. As if any in-terruption would break the frail shape she was build-ing on the table she turned her back to the windowlest Mr. Ramsay should see her. She must escapesomewhere, be alone somewhere. Suddenly she re-membered. When she had sat there last ten years agothere had been a little sprig or leaf pattern on thetable-cloth, which she had looked at in a moment ofrevelation. There had been a problem about a fore-ground of a picture. Move the tree to the middle,she had said. She had never finished that picture.She would paint that picture now. It had beenknocking about in her mind all these years. Wherewere her paints, she wondered? Her paints, yes. Shehad left them in the hall last night. She would startat once. She got up quickly, before Mr. Ramsayturned.

She fetched herself a chair. She pitched her easelwith her precise old-maidish movements on the edgeof the lawn, not too close to Mr. Carmichael, butclose enough for his protection. Yes, it must have220

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