TO THE LIGHTHOUSEcould not do. He found talking so much easierthan she did. He could say things—she nevercould. So naturally it was always he that said thethings, and then for some reason he would mindthis suddenly, and would reproach her. A heartless woman he called her; she never told him thatshe loved him. But it was not so-it was not so. gIt was only that she never could say what she felt.Was there no crumb on his coat? Nothing shecould do for him? Getting up she stood at thewindow with the reddish-brown stocking in herhands, partly to turn away from him, partly becauseshe did not mind looking now, with him watching, atthe Lighthouse. For she knew that he had turnedhis head as she turned; he was watching her. Sheknew that he was thinking, You are more beautifulthan ever. And she felt herself very beautiful.Will you not tell mejust for once that you love me?He was thinking that, for he was roused, what withMinta and his book, and its being the end of theday and their having quarrelled about going to theLighthouse. But she could not do it; she couldnot say it. Then, knowing that he was watchingher, instead of saying any thing she turned,holding her stocking, and looked at him. Andas she looked at him she began to smile, forthough she had not said a word, he knew, ofcourse he knew, that she loved him. He couldI 90
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