185as she sat there in the early dawn, seemed toCould loving her, as people called it, make them one - & soimpart to - for it was that, perhaps, unity & onenethat was knowledge - not inscriptions on tablets, nothing thatnot knowledgebut unity;could be written out in any language known to man, it was is butto intimacy, that is knowledge,she had thought, still leaningforher head against Mrs. Ramsays knee; &And it is notWhich is impossible, she had decided; & how did she knowthat it was not an illusion - her sense of the knowledge & wisdom, ofof wisdom, of something stored up in Mrs. the chambers ofMrs. Ramsays heart, & was it not due to her beauty - to theHow did one know one thing or another, about people, sealed asOnlythey were, ? but only, like a bee, drawn by an instinct,drawn by some sharpness or sweetness ?on the air, intangibleto touch or taste, one haunted the domelike hive,ranged the air widely alone, & then with thecountries of the world widely alone, & then haunted thosehives, so full of mysterious murmurs, even of signals ?&otherbeckonings, which were people; which Mrs. were Mrs.Ramsay. And getting up & ?stret Then she got up; & Mrs.Ramsay got up: & for days afterwards Lily Briscoe hadthere had hung about her - as v more vividly than anythingsoftshe said, like a a sound of murmuring. She had seenher sitting in a wicker arm chair in her drawing roomlike a dome.That it was allvery

That Things are odd, she might haveabout to saysaid, as shefinished scraping her palette; only but But while shehad been looking down into her paint box, on &arranging making ready to [? ha f] pack up,Mr. Bankes had, unknown to her, put on his& stood consideringspectacles to look at her picture.He had raised his hand. Hewas
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