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TO THE LIGHTHOUSEwhich, creeping in at keyholes and crevices,stole round window blinds, came into bedrooms,swallowed up here a jug and basin, there a bowlof red and yellow dahlias, there the sharp edgesand firm bulk of a chest of drawers. Not only wasfurniture confounded; there was scarcely anythingleft of body or mind by which one could say, "This ishe" or "This is she." Sometimes a hand was raisedas if to clutch something or ward off something, orsomebody groaned, or somebody laughed aloud as ifsharing a joke with nothingness.

Nothing stirred in the drawing-room or in thedining-room or on the staircase. Only through therusty hinges and swollen sea-moistened woodworkcertain airs, detached from the body of the wind(the house was ramshackle after all) crept roundcorners and ventured indoors. Almost one mightimagine them, as they entered the drawing-roomquestioning and wondering, toying with the flap ofhanging wall-paper, asking, would it hang muchlonger, when would it fall? Then smoothly brushingthe walls, they passed on musingly as if asking thered and yellow roses on the wall-paper whether theywould fade, and questioning (gently, for there wastime at their disposal) the torn letters in the waste-paper basket, the flowers, the books, all of whichwere now open to them and asking, Were they190