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THE WINDOWthought, how, if one was alone, one leant to things,inanimate things; trees, streams, flowers; felt they ex-pressed one; felt they became one; felt they knew one,in a sense were one; felt an irrational tenderness thus(she looked at that long steady light) as for oneself.There rose, and she looked and looked with her nee-dles suspended, there curled up off the floor of themind, rose from the lake of one’s being, a mist, abride to meet her lover.

What brought her to say that: ‘We are in the handsof the Lord?’ she wondered. The insincerity slippingin among the truths roused her, annoyed her. Shereturned to her knitting again. How could any Lordhave made this world? she asked. With her mind shehad always seized the fact that there is no reason,order, justice: but suffering, death, the poor. Therewas no treachery too base for the world to commit;she knew that. No happiness lasted; she knew that.She knitted with firm composure, slightly pursingher lips and, without being aware of it, so stiffenedand composed the lines of her face in a habit of stern-ness that when her husband passed, though he waschuckling at the thought that Hume, the philosopher,grown enormously fat, had stuck in a bog, he couldnot help noting, as he passed, the sternness at the heartof her beauty. It saddened him, and her remotenesspained him, and he felt, as he passed, that he could notprotect her, and, when he reached the hedge, he wassad. He could do nothing to help her. He must standby and watch her. Indeed, the infernal truth was, hemade things worse for her. He was irritable — he wastouchy. He had lost his temper over the Lighthouse. Helooked into the hedge, into its intricacy, its darkness.77