"Such expeditions," said Mr. Ramsay, scrapingthe ground with his toe, "are very painful." StillLily said nothing. (She is a stock, she is a stone, hesaid to himself.) "They are very exhausting," hesaid, looking, with a sickly look that nauseated her(he was acting, she felt, this great man was drama-tising himself), at his beautiful hands. It was hor-rible, it was indecent. Would they never come, sheasked, for she could not sustain this enormousweight of sorrow, support these heavy draperies ofgrief (he had assumed a pose of extreme decrep-itude; he even tottered a little as he stood there) amoment longer.

Still she could say nothing; the whole horizonseemed swept bare of objects to talk about; couldonly feel, amazedly, as Mr. Ramsay stood there,how his gaze seemed to fall dolefully over the sunnygrass and discolour it, and cast over the rubicund,drowsy, entirely contented figure of Mr. Carmichael,reading a French novel on a deck-chair, a veil ofcrape, as if such an existence, flaunting its pros-perity in a world of woe, were enough to provokethe most dismal thoughts of all. Look at him, heseemed to be saying, look at me; and indeed, all thetime he was feeling, Think of me, think of me. Ah,could that bulk only be wafted alongside of them,Lily wished; had she only pitched her easel a yard or227
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