THE WINDOWagain on a flower in the pattern in the table-cloth,so as to remind herself to move the tree.

lt’s odd that one scarcely gets anything worthhaving by post, yet one always wants one’sletters," said Mr. Bankes.

What damned rot they talk, thought CharlesTansley, laying down his spoon precisely in themiddle of his plate, which he had swept clean, as if,Lily thought (he sat opposite to her with his backto the window precisely in the middle of view),he were determined to make sure of his meals.Everything about him had that meagre iixity,that bare unloveliness. But nevertheless, the factremained, it was almost impossible to dislikeanyone if one looked at them. She liked his eyes;they were blue, deep set, frightening.‘ Do you write many letters, Mr. Tansley?asked Mrs. Ramsay, pitying him too, Lilysupposed; for that was true of Mrs. Ramsayshe pitied men always as if they lacked something

women never, as if they had something. Hewrote to his mother; otherwise he did not supposehe wrote one letter a month, said Mr. Tansley,shortly.

For he was not going to talk the sort of rotthese people wanted him to talk. He was notgoing to be condescended to by these silly women.He had been reading in his room, and now heI33

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