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TO THE LIGHTHOUSEfolly of women’s minds enraged him. He had riddenthrough the valley of death, been shattered and shiv-ered; and now she flew in the face of facts, made hischildren hope what was utterly out of the question, ineffect, told lies. He stamped his foot on the stone step.‘Damn you,’ he said. But what had she said? Simplythat it might be fine to-morrow. So it might.Not with the barometer falling and the wind duewest.To pursue truth with such astonishing lack of con-sideration for other people’s feelings, to rend the thinveils of civilisation so wantonly, so brutally was to herso horrible an outrage of human decency that, with-out replying, dazed and blinded, she bent her headas if to let the pelt of jagged hail, the drench of dirtywater, bespatter her unrebuked. There was nothingto be said.He stood by her in silence. Very humbly, at length,he said that he would step over and ask the Coast-guards if she liked.There was nobody whom she reverenced as shereverenced him.She was quite ready to take his word for it, she said.Only then they need not cut sandwiches — that wasall. They came to her, naturally, since she was a wo-man, all day long with this and that; one wantingthis, another that; the children were growing up; sheoften felt she was nothing but a sponge sopped full ofhuman emotions. Then he said, Damn you. He said,It must rain. He said, It won’t rain; and instantly aHeaven of security opened before her. There was no-body she reverenced more. She was not good enoughto tie his shoe strings, she felt.40