THE LIGHTHOUSEbeen precisely here that she had stood ten years ago.There was the wall; the hedge; the tree. The ques-tion was of some relation between those masses.She had borne it in her mind all these years. Itseemed as if the solution had come to her: she knewnow what she wanted to do.

But with Mr. Ramsay bearing down on her, shecould do nothing. Every time he approached—hewas walking up and down the terrace—ruin ap-proached, chaos approached. She could not paint.She stooped, she turned; she took up this rag; shesqueezed that tube. But all she did was to ward himoff a moment. He made it impossible for her to doanything. For if she gave him the least chance, ifhe saw her disengaged a moment, looking his waya moment, he would be on her, saying, as he hadsaid last night, "You find us much changed." Lastnight he had got up and stopped before her, and saidthat. Dumb and staring though they had all sat, thesix children whom they used to call after the Kingsand Queens of England—the Red, the Fair, theWicked, the Ruthless—she felt how they ragedunder it. Kind old Mrs. Beckwith said somethingsensible. But it was a house full of unrelatedpassions—she had felt that all the evening. And ontop of this chaos Mr. Ramsay got up, pressed herhand, and said: "You will find us much changed"221
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