But what a face, she thought, immediately find-ing the sympathy which she had not been asked togive troubling her for expression. What had madeit like that? Thinking, night after night, she sup-posed—about the reality of kitchen tables, sheadded, remembering the symbol which in her vague-ness as to what Mr. Ramsay did think about Andrewhad given her. (He had been killed by the splinter ofa shell instantly, she bethought her.) The kitchentable was something visionary, austere; somethingbare, hard, not ornamental. There was no colourto it; it was all edges and angles; it was uncom-promisingly plain. But Mr. Ramsay kept always hiseyes fixed upon it, never allowed himself to be dis-tracted or deluded, until his face became worn tooand ascetic and partook of this unornamentedbeauty which so deeply impressed her. Then, sherecalled (standing where he had left her, holding herbrush), worries had fretted it—not so nobly. Hemust have had his doubts about that table, shesupposed; whether the table was a real table;whether it was worth the time he gave to it; whetherhe was able after all to find it. He had had doubts,she felt, or he would have asked less of people.That was what they talked about late at night some-times, she suspected; and then next day Mrs.Ramsay looked tired, and Lily flew into a rage with232

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