THE WINDOWfor it and Mrs. Ramsay for it and the hour andthe place, crediting the world with a power whichshe had not suspected, that one could walk awaydown that long gallery not alone any more butarm in arm with somebody—the strangest feelingin the world, and the most exhilarating—shenicked the catch of her paint-box to, more firmlythan was necessary, and the nick seemed tosurround in a circle for ever the paint—box, thelawn, Mr. Bankes, and that wild villain, Cam,dashing past.IO

For Cam grazed the easel by an inch; shewould not stop for Mr. Bankes and Lily Briscoe;though Mr. Bankes, who would have liked adaughter of his own, held out his hand; she wouldnot stop for her father, whom she grazed also byan inch; nor for her mother, who called “ Cam!l want you a moment! " as she dashed past. Shewas off like a bird, bullet, or arrow, impelledby what desire, shot by whom, at what directed,who could say? What, what? Mrs. Ramsaypondered, watching her. It might be a visionof a shell, of a wheelbarrow, of a fairy kingdomon the far side ofthe hedge; or it might bethe glory of speed; no one knew. But whenMrs. Ramsay called “ Cam! " a second time, the

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