TO THE LIGHTHOUSErisen somehow and gone away and left him there,impotent, ridiculous, sitting on the floor grasping apair of scissors.

Not a breath of wind blew. The water chuckledand gurgled in the bottom of the boat where threeor four mackerel beat their tails up and down in apool of water not deep enough to cover them. Atany moment Mr. Ramsay (he scarcely dared lookat him) might rouse himself, shut his book, and saysomething sharp; but for the moment he was read-ing, so that James stealthily, as if he were stealingdownstairs on bare feet, afraid of waking a watch-dog by a creaking board, went on thinking what wasshe like, where did she go that day? He began fol-lowing her from room to room and at last they cameto a room where in a blue light, as if the reflectioncame from many china dishes, she talked to some-body; he listened to her talking. She talked to aservant, saying simply whatever came into her head.She alone spoke the truth; to her alone could hespeak it. That was the source of her everlasting at-traction for him, perhaps; she was a person to whomone could say what came into one’s head. But all thetime he thought of her, he was conscious of hisfather following his thought, surveying it, making itshiver and falter. At last he ceased to think.

There he sat with his hand on the tiller in the sun,278
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