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TO THE LIGHTHOUSEdevices, Mrs. Ramsay said, wondering whether it wasany use sending down bulbs; did they plant them?‘Oh, he has his dissertation to write,’ said Mr. Ram-say. She knew all about that, said Mrs. Ramsay. Hetalked of nothing else. It was about the influence ofsomebody upon something. ‘Well, it’s all he has tocount on,’ said Mr. Ramsay. ‘Pray Heaven he won’tfall in love with Prue,’ said Mrs. Ramsay. He’d disin-herit her if she married him, said Mr. Ramsay. Hedid not look at the flowers, which his wife was consid-ering, but at a spot about a foot or so above them.There was no harm in him, he added, and was justabout to say that anyhow he was the only young manin England who admired his — when he choked itback. He would not bother her again about his books.These flowers seemed creditable, Mr. Ramsay said,lowering his gaze and noticing something red, some-thing brown. Yes, but then these she had put in withher own hands, said Mrs. Ramsay. The question was,what happened if she sent bulbs down; did Kennedyplant them? It was his incurable laziness, she added,moving on. If she stood over him all day long with aspade in her hand, he did sometimes do a stroke ofwork. So they strolled along, towards the red-hotpokers. ‘You’re teaching your daughters to exagger-ate,’ said Mr. Ramsay, reproving her. Her Aunt Ca-milla was far worse than she was, Mrs. Ramsay re-marked. ‘Nobody ever held up your Aunt Camilla asa model of virtue that I’m aware of,' said Mr. Ramsay.‘She was the most beautiful woman I ever saw,’ saidMrs. Ramsay. ‘Somebody else was that,’ said Mr. Ram-say. Prue was going to be far more beautiful than shewas, said Mrs. Ramsay. He saw no trace of it, said80