THE LIGHTHOUSEgaze which was yet so penetrating, as if he saw you,for one second, for the first time, for ever; and shepretended to drink out of her empty coffee cup so asto escape him — to escape his demand on her, to putaside a moment longer that imperious need. And heshook his head at her, and strode on (‘Alone’ sheheard him say, ‘Perished’ she heard him say) andlike everything else this strange morning the wordsbecame symbols, wrote themselves all over the grey-green walls. If only she could put them together, shefelt, write them out in some sentence, then she wouldhave got at the truth of things. Old Mr. Carmichaelcame padding softly in, fetched his coffee, took hiscup and made off to sit in the sun. The extraordinaryunreality was frightening; but it was also exciting.Going to the Lighthouse. But what does one send tothe Lighthouse? Perished. Alone. The grey-green lighton the wall opposite. The empty places. Such weresome of the parts, but how bring them together? sheasked. As if any interruption would break the frailshape she was building on the table she turned herback to the window lest Mr. Ramsay should see her.She must escape somehow, be alone somewhere. Sud-denly she remembered. When she had sat there lastten years ago there had been a little sprig of leafpattern on the table-cloth, which she had looked atin a moment of revelation. There had been a problemabout a foreground of a picture. Move the tree tothe middle, she had said. She had never finished thatpicture. It had been knocking about in her mind allthese years. She would paint that picture now. Wherewere her paints, she wondered? Her paints, yes. Shehad left them in the hall last night. She would start171
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