TO THE LIGHTHOUSEher picture; that line there, that mass there. But itwas out of the question. Let him be fifty feet away,let him not even speak to you, let him not even seeyou, he permeated, he prevailed, he imposed him-self. He changed everything. She could not see thecolour; she could not see the lines; even with hisback turned to her, she could only think, But he’llbe down on me in a moment, demanding — some-thing she felt she could not give him. She rejectedone brush; she chose another. When would thosechildren come? When would they all be off? she fidg-eted. That man, she thought, her anger rising in her,never gave; that man took. She, on the other hand,would be forced to give. Mrs. Ramsay had given.Giving, giving, giving, she had died — and had leftall this. Really, she was angry with Mrs. Ramsay.With the brush slightly trembling in her fingers shelooked at the hedge, the step, the wall. It was all Mrs.Ramsay’s doing. She was dead. Here was Lily, atforty-four, wasting her time, unable to do a thing,standing there, playing at painting, playing at theone thing one did not play at, and it was all Mrs.Ramsay’s fault. She was dead. The step where sheused to sit was empty. She was dead.

But why repeat this over and over again? Why bealways trying to bring up some feeling she had notgot? There was a kind of blasphemy in it. It was alldry: all withered: all spent. They ought not to haveasked her; she ought not to have come. One can’twaste one’s time at forty-four, she thought. She hatedplaying at painting. A brush, the one dependable

thing in a world of strife, ruin, chaos — that one

should not play with, knowingly even: she detested it.

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