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TO THE LIGHTHOUSERamsay had lost his temper and banged out of theroom.

"What’s the use of going now?" he had stormed.

Nancy had vanished. There he was, marching upand down the terrace in a rage. One seemed to heardoors slamming and voices calling all over thehouse. Now Nancy burst in, and asked, lookinground the room, in a queer half dazed, half des-perate way, "What does one send to the Light-house?" as if she were forcing herself to do what shedespaired of ever being able to do.

What does one send to the Lighthouse indeed!At any other time Lily could have suggestedreasonably tea, tobacco, newspapers. But this morn-ing everything seemed so extraordinarily queer thata question like Nancy’s—What does one send to theLighthouse?—opened doors in one’s mind that wentbanging and swinging to and fro and made one keepasking, in a stupefied gape, What does one send?What does one do? Why is one sitting here, afterall?

Sitting alone (for Nancy went out again) amongthe clean cups at the long table, she felt cut off fromother people, and able only to go on watching, ask-ing, wondering. The house, the place, the morning,all seemed strangers to her. She had no attachmenthere, she felt, no relations with it, anything might218