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THE LIGHTHOUSEwent upstairs; the moon surprised them, enormous,pale, as they passed the staircase window. She hadslept at once.

She set her clean canvas firmly upon the easel,as a barrier, frail, but she hoped sufficiently sub-stantial to ward off Mr. Ramsay and his exacting-ness. She did her best to look, when his back wasturned, at her picture; that line there, that massthere. But it was out of the question. Let him befifty feet away, let him not even speak to you, lethim not even see you, he permeated, he prevailed,he imposed himself. He changed everything. Shecould not see the colour; she could not see the lines;even with his back turned to her, she could onlythink, But he’ll be down on me in a moment, de-manding—something she felt she could not give him.She rejected one brush; she chose another. Whenwould those children come? When would they allbe off? she fidgeted. That man, she thought, heranger rising in her, never gave; that man took.She, on the other hand, would be forced to give.Mrs. Ramsay had given. Giving, giving, giving, shehad died—and had left all this. Really, she wasangry with Mrs. Ramsay. With the brush slightlytrembling in her fingers she looked at the hedge,the step, the wall. It was all Mrs. Ramsay’s doing.She was dead. Here was Lily, at forty-four, wasting223