THE WINDOWthem), and work it into the picture; or if onethought of her simply as a woman, one mustendow her with some freak of idiosyncrasy; orsuppose some latent desire to doff her royalty ofform as if her beauty bored her and all that mensay of beauty, and she wanted only to be like otherpeople, insignificant. He did not know. He didnot know. He must go to his work.)

Knitting her reddish-brown hairy stocking,with her head outlined absurdly by the gilt frame,the green shawl which she had tossed over theedge of the frame, and the authenticated master-piece by Michael Angelo, Mrs. Ramsay smoothedout what had been harsh in her manner a momentbefore, raised his head, and kissed her little boyon the forehead. "Let's find another picture tocut out," she said.6

But what had happened?

Someone had blundered.

Starting from her musing she gave meaningto words which she had held meaningless in hermind for a long stretch of time. "Someone hadblundered"—Fixing her short-sighted eyes uponher husband, who was now bearing down uponher, she gazed steadily until his closeness revealedto her (the jingle mated itself in her head) that51
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