THE LIGHTHOUSERamsay wore, from his frayed tie to his half-buttoned waistcoat, his own indisputably. She couldsee them walking to his room of their own accord,expressive in his absence of pathos, surliness,ill-temper, charm.

"What beautiful boots!" she exclaimed. She wasashamed of herself. To praise his boots when heasked her to solace his soul; when he had shown herhis bleeding hands, his lacerated heart, and askedher to pity them, then to say, cheerfully, "Ah, butwhat beautiful boots you wear!" deserved, she knew,and she looked up expecting to get it, in one of hissudden roars of ill-temper, complete annihilation.

Instead, Mr. Ramsay smiled. His pall, his dra-peries, his infirmities fell from him. Ah, yes, he said,holding his foot up for her to look at, they werefirst-rate boots. There was only one man in Englandwho could make boots like that. Boots are amongthe chief curses of mankind, he said. "Bootmakersmake it their business," he exclaimed, "to crippleand torture the human foot." They are also the mostobstinate and perverse of mankind. It had takenhim the best part of his youth to get boots made asthey should be made. He would have her observe(he lifted his right foot and then his left) that shehad never seen boots made quite that shape before.They were made of the finest leather in the world,229

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