THE LIGHTHQUSEher now when she thought of her picture. Phrasescame. Visions came. Beautiful pictures. Beautifulphrases. But what she wished to get hold of wasthat very jar on the nerves, the thing itself beforeit has been made anything. Get that and startafresh; get that and start afresh; she saiddesperately, pitching herself firmly again beforeher easel. It was a miserable machine, an inefficient machine, she thought, the human apparatus for painting or for feeling; it always brokedown at the critical moment; heroically, one mustforce it on. She stared, frowning. There was thehedge, sure enough. But one got nothing bysoliciting urgently. One got only a glare in theeye from looking at the line of the wall, or fromthinking——she wore a grey hat. She was astonishingly beautiful. Let it come, she thought, ifit will come. For there are moments when onecan neither think nor feel. And if one can neitherthink nor feel, she thought, where is one?

Here on the grass, on the ground, she thought,sitting down, and examining with her brush alittle colony of plantains. For the lawn was veryrough. Here sitting on the world, she thought,for she could not shake herself free from the sensethat everything this morning was happening forthe first time, perhaps for the last time, as atraveller, even though he is half asleep, knows,297

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