THE LIGHTHOUSEmonotonous, they would say, and the same always!They preferred another type—the dark, the viva-cious. Then she was weak with her husband. Shelet him make those scenes. Then she was reserved.Nobody knew exactly what had happened to her.And (to go back to Mr. Carmichael and his dislike)one could not imagine Mrs. Ramsay standing paint-ing, lying reading, a whole morning on the lawn.It was unthinkable. Without saying a word, the onlytoken of her errand a basket on her arm, she wentoff to the town, to the poor, to sit in some stuffylittle bedroom. Often and often Lily had seen hergo silently in the midst of some game, some dis-cussion, with her basket on her arm, very upright.She had noted her return. She had thought, halflaughing (she was so methodical with the tea cups),half moved (her beauty took one’s breath away),eyes that are closing in pain have looked on you.You have been with them there.

And then Mrs. Ramsay would be annoyed be-cause somebody was late, or the butter not fresh,or the teapot chipped. And all the time she wassaying that the butter was not fresh one would bethinking of Greek temples, and how beauty had beenwith them there in that stuffy little room. She nevertalked of it—she went, punctually, directly. It washer instinct to go, an instinct like the swallows for291

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