THE WINDOWto say about Mrs. Ramsay. She did not know howshe would have put it; but it would have beensomething critical. She had been annoyed theother night by some highhandedness. Lookingalong the level of Mr. Bankes’ glance at her, shethought that no woman could worship anotherwoman in the way he worshipped; they couldonly seek shelter under the shade which Mr.Bankes extended over them both. Looking alonghis beam she added to it her different ray,thinking that she was unquestionably the loveliestof people (bowed over her book); the bestperhaps; but also, different too from the perfectshape which one saw there. But why different,and how different? she asked herself, scrapingher palette of all those mounds of blue and greenwhich seemed to her like clods with no life inthem now, yet she vowed, she would inspire them,force them to move, flow, do her bidding tomorrow. How did she differ? What was thespirit in her, the essential thing, by which, hadyou found a glove in the corner of a sofa, youwould have known it, from its twisted finger, hersindisputably? She was like a bird for speed, anarrow for directness. She was wilful; she wascommanding (of course, Lily reminded herselh Iam thinking of her relations with women, and Iam much younger, an insigniiicant person, living79
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