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TO THE LIGHTHOUSEtional tenderness thus (she looked at that longsteady light) as for oneself. There rose, and shelooked and looked with her needles suspended, therecurled up off the floor of the mind, rose from thelake of one’s being, a mist, a bride to meet herlover.

What brought her to say that: "We are in thehands of the Lord?" she wondered. The insincerityslipping in among the truths roused her, annoyedher. She returned to her knitting again. How couldany Lord have made this world? she asked. Withher mind she had always seized the fact that thereis no reason, order, justice: but suffering, death, thepoor. There was no treachery too base for the worldto commit; she knew that. No happiness lasted;she knew that. She knitted with firm composure,slightly pursing her lips and, without being awareof it, so stiffened and composed the lines of herface in a habit of sternness that when her husbandpassed, though he was chuckling at the thoughtthat Hume, the philosopher, grown enormously fat,had stuck in a bog, he could not help noting, as hepassed, the sternness at the heart of her beauty. Itsaddened him, and her remoteness pained him, andhe felt, as he passed, that he could not protect her,and, when he reached the hedge, he was sad. Hecould do nothing to help her. He must stand by and