TO THE LIGHTHOUSEher brush deliberately, to be on a level with ordi-nary experience, to feel simply that’s a chair, that’sa table, and yet at the same time, It’s a miracle, it’san ecstasy. The problem might be solved after all.Ah, but what had happened? Some wave of whitewent over the window pane. The air must havestirred some flounce in the room. Her heart leapt ather and seized her and tortured her.

“Mrs. Ramsay! Mrs. Ramsay!" she cried, feelingthe old horror come back—to want and want andnot to have. Could she inflict that still? And then,quietly, as if she refrained, that too became part ofordinary experience, was on a level with the chair,with the table. Mrs. Ramsay—it was part of herperfect goodness—sat there quite simply, in thechair, flicked her needles to and fro, knitted herreddish-brown stocking, cast her shadow on thestep. There she sat.

And as if she had something she must share, yetcould hardly leave her easel, so full her mind wasof what she was thinking, of what she was seeing,Lily went past Mr. Carmichael holding her brush tothe edge of the lawn. Where was that boat now?And Mr. Ramsay? She wanted him.300

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