THE WINDOWimpressions poured in upon her of those twomen, and to follow her thought was like followinga voice which speaks too quickly to be taken downby one’s pencil, and the voice was her own voicesaying without prompting undeniable, everlasting,contradictory things, so that even the fissuresand humps on the bark of the pear tree wereirrevocably iixed there for eternity. You havegreatness, she continued, but Mr. Ramsay hasnone of it. He is petty, selfish, vain, egotistical;he is spoilt; he is a tyrant; he wears Mrs.Ramsay to death; but he has what you (sheaddressed Mr. Bankes) have not; a fiery unworldliness; he knows nothing about trifles; he lovesdogs and his children. He has eight. Youhave none. Did he not come down in two coatsthe other night and let Mrs. Ramsay trim hishair into a pudding basin? All of this dancedup and down, like a company of gnats, eachseparate, but all marvellously controlled in aninvisible elastic net——danced up and down inLily’s mind, in and about the branches of thepear tree, where still hung in eHigy the scrubbedkitchen table, symbol of her profound respect forMr. Ramsay’s mind, until her thought which hadspun quicker and quicker exploded of its ownintensity; she felt released; a shot went oH’close at hand, and there came, Hying from its43
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