THE L1GHTHOUsEgame, some discussion, with her basket on herarm, very upright. She had noted her return.She had thought, half laughing {she was somethodical with the tea cups) half moved (herbeauty took one’s breath away), eyes that areclosing in pain have looked on you. You havebeen with them there.

And then Mrs. Ramsay would be annoyedbecause somebody was late, or the butter notfresh, or the teapot chipped. And all the timeshe was saying that the butter was not fresh onewould be thinking of Greek temples, and howbeauty had been with them there. She nevertalked of it—she went, punctually, directly. It washer instinct to go, an instinct like the swallows forthe south, the artichokes for the sun, turning herinfallibly to the human race, making her nest inits heart. And this, like all instincts, was a littledistressing to people who did not share it; toMr. Carmichael perhaps, to herself certainly.Some notion was in both of them about theineH·`ectiveness of action, the supremacy of thought.Her going was a reproach to them, gave a diH`erenttwist to the world, so that they were led to protest,seeing their own prepossessions disappear, andclutch at them vanishing. Charles Tansley didthat too: it was part of the reason why one disliked him. He upset the proportions of one’s301

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