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THE WINDOWstinct to complete the picture, after this swift move-ment, both of them looked at the dunes far away, andinstead of merriment felt come over them some sad-ness — because the thing was completed partly, andpartly because distant views seem to outlast by a mil-lion years (Lily thought) the gazer and to be commun-ing already with a sky which beholds an earth entirelyat rest.Looking at the far sand hills, William Bankes thoughtof Ramsay: thought of a road in Westmorland, thoughtof Ramsay striding along a road by himself hung roundwith that solitude which seemed to be his natural air.But this was suddenly interrupted, William Bankesremembered (and this must refer to some actual inci-dent), by a hen, straddling her wings out in protectionof a covey of little chicks, upon which Ramsay, stop-ping, pointed his stick and said ‘Pretty — pretty,’ anodd illumination into his heart, Bankes had thought it,which showed his simplicity, his sympathy with hum-ble things; but it seemed to him as if their friendshiphad ceased, there, on that stretch of road. After that,Ramsay had married. After that, what with one thingand another, the pulp had gone out of their friend-ship. Whose fault it was he could not say, only, aftera time, repetition had taken the place of newness. Itwas to repeat that they met. But in this dumb colloquywith the sand dunes he maintained that his affectionfor Ramsay had in no way diminished; but there, likethe body of a young man laid up in peat for a century,with the red fresh on his lips, was his friendship, in itsacuteness and reality laid up across the bay amongthe sandhills.He was anxious for the sake of this friendship and27