TO THE LIGHTHOUSEreleased it, the load of her accumulated impres-sions of him tilted up, and down poured in aponderous avalanche all she felt about him. Thatwas one sensation. Then up rose in a fume theessence of his being. That was another. Shefelt herself transfixed by the intensity of her per-ception; it was his severity; his goodness. Irespect you (she addressed him silently) in everyatom; you are not vain; you are entirely im-personal; you are finer than Mr. Ramsay; youare the finest human being that I know; you haveneither wife nor child (without any sexual feeling,she longed to cherish that loneliness), you livefor science (involuntarily, sections of potatoesrose before her eyes); praise would be an insultto you; generous, pure-hearted, heroic man!But simultaneously, she remembered how he hadbrought a valet all the way up here; objectedto dogs on chairs; would prose for hours (untilMr. Ramsay slammed out of the room) aboutsalt in vegetables and the iniquity of Englishcooks.

How then did it work out, all this? Howdid one judge people, think of them? How didone add up this and that and conclude that itwas liking one felt, or disliking? And to thosewords, what meaning attached, after all? Stand-ing now, apparently transfixed, by the pear tree,

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