TO THE LIGHTHOUSEthought it such a good name for a villain.“ Vronsky," said l\/Irs. Ramsay; “ O, AnnaKrzrenimz," but that did not take them veryfar; books were not in their line. No, CharlesTansley would put them both right in a secondabout books, but it was all so mixed up with,Am I saying the right thing? Am I making agood impression? that, after all, one knew moreabout him than about Tolstoi, whereas whatPaul said was about the thing simply, not himself. Like all stupid people, he had a kind ofmodesty too, a consideration for what you werefeeling, which, once in a way at least, she foundattractive. Now he was thinking, not abouthimself or about Tolstoi, but whether she wascold, whether she felt a draught, whether shewould like a pear.

No, she said, she did not want a pear. Indeedshe had been keeping guard over the dish offruit (without realising it) jealously, hoping thatnobody would touch it. Her eyes had beengoing in and out among the curves and shadowsof the fruit, among the rich purples of the lowland grapes, then over the horny ridge of theshell, putting a yellow against a purple, a curvedshape against a round shape, without knowingwhy she did it, or why, every time she did it, shefelt more and more serene; until, oh, what a168

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