Against her will she had come to the surface, andfound herself half out of the picture, looking, alittle dazedly, as if at unreal things, at Mr. Car-michael. He lay on his chair with his hands claspedabove his paunch not reading, or sleeping, but bask-ing like a creature gorged with existence. His bookhad fallen on to the grass.

She wanted to go straight up to him and say,"Mr. Carmichael!" Then he would look up benev-olently as always, from his smoky vague greeneyes. But one only woke people if one knew whatone wanted to say to them. And she wanted to saynot one thing, but everything. Little words thatbroke up the thought and dismembered it said noth-ing. "About life, about death; about Mrs. Ramsay"—no, she thought, one could say nothing to nobody.The urgency of the moment always missed its mark.Words fluttered sideways and struck the objectinches too low. Then one gave it up; then the ideasunk back again; then one became like most middle-aged people, cautious, furtive, with wrinkles betweenthe eyes and a look of perpetual apprehension. Forhow could one express in words these emotions ofthe body? express that emptiness there? (She waslooking at the drawing-room steps; they looked ex-traordinarily empty.) It was one’s body feeling, notone’s mind. The physical sensations that went with265
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