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THE WINDOWmother was to wear. What was the reason, Mrs.Ramsay wondered, standing still to let her clasp thenecklace she had chosen, divining, through her ownpast, some deep, some buried, some quite speechlessfeeling that one had for one's mother at Rose's age.Like all feelings felt for oneself, Mrs. Ramsaythought, it made one sad. It was so inadequate, whatone could give in return; and what Rose felt wasquite out of proportion to anything she actuallywas. And Rose would grow up; and Rose wouldsuffer, she supposed, with these deep feelings, andshe said she was ready now, and they would godown, and Jasper, because he was the gentleman,should give her his arm, and Rose, as she was thelady, should carry her handkerchief (she gave herthe handkerchief), and what else? oh, yes, it mightbe cold: a shawl. Choose me a shawl, she said, forthat would please Rose, who was bound to sufferso. "There," she said, stopping by the window onthe landing, "there they are again." Joseph hadsettled on another tree-top. "Don't you think theymind," she said to Jasper, "having their wingsbroken?" Why did he want to shoot poor old Josephand Mary? He shuffled a little on the stairs, andfelt rebuked, but not seriously, for she did not un-derstand the fun of shooting birds; and they didnot feel; and being his mother she lived away in123