Oh but, Lily would say, there was her father;her home; even, had she dared to say it, herpainting. But all this seemed so little, so virginal,against the other. Yet, as the night wore on, and white lights parted the curtains, and evennow and then some bird chirped in the garden, gathering a desperate courage she would urgeher own exemption from the universal law; pleadfor it; she liked to be alone; she liked to beherself; she was not made for that; and so haveto meet a serious stare from eyes of unparalleleddepth, and confront Mrs. Ramsay’s simplecertainty (and she was childlike now) that her dearLily, her little Brisk, was a fool. Then, she remembered, she had laid her head on Mrs. Ramsay’slap and laughed and laughed and laughed, laughedalmost hysterically at the thought of Mrs. Ramsaypresiding with immutable calm over destinieswhich she completely failed to understand. Thereshe sat, simple, serious. She had recovered hersense of her now—this was the glove’s twistedfinger. But into what sanctuary had one penetrated? Lily Briscoe had looked up at last, and there was Mrs. Ramsay, unwitting entirelywhat had caused her laughter, still presiding,but now with every trace of wilfulness abolished, and in its stead, something clear as theSpace which the, clouds at last uncover—the81

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