THE LIGHTHOUSEcut off from other people, and able only to goon watching, asking, wondering. The house, theplace, the morning, all seemed strangers to her.She had no attachment here, she felt, no relationswith it, anything might happen, and whatever didhappen, a step outside, a voice calling (" It’s notin the cupboard; it’s on the landing," some onecried), was a question, as if the link that usuallybound things together had been cut, and theyfloated up here, down there, off`, anyhow. Howaimless it was, how chaotic, how unreal itwas, she thought, looking at her empty coffeecup. Mrs. Ramsay dead; Andrew killed; Pruedead too—repeat it as she might, it roused nofeeling in her. And we all get together in ahouse like this on a morning like this, shesaid, looking out of the window——it was abeautiful still day.

Suddenly Mr. Ramsay raised his head as hepassed and looked straight at her, with hisdistraught wild gaze which was yet so penetrating,as if he saw you, for one second, for the first time,for ever; and she pretended to drink out of herCmpty coffee cup so as to escape him——to escapehis demand on her, to put aside a moment longerthat imperious need. And he shook his head ater, and strode on (“ Alone " she heard him say,i Perished ” she heard him say) and like every227

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