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TO THE LIGHTHOUSElaughed, but in her weariness perhaps concealed some-thing. She brooded and sat silent. After a time he wouldhang stealthily about the places where she was â€”roaming under the window where she sat writing let-ters or talking, for she would take care to be busywhen he passed, and evade him, and pretend not tosee him. Then he would turn smooth as silk, affable,urbane, and try to win her so. Still she would hold off,and now she would assert for a brief season some ofthose prides and airs the due of her beauty which shewas generally utterly without; would turn her head;would look so, over her shoulder, always with someMinta, Paul, or William Bankes at her side. At length,standing outside the group the very figure of a fam-ished wolfhound (Lily got up off the grass and stoodlooking at the steps, at the window, where she hadseen him), he would say her name, once only, for allthe world like a wolf barking in the snow, but stillshe held back; and he would say it once more, andthis time something in the tone would rouse her, andshe would go to him, leaving them all of a sudden,and they would walk off together among the peartrees, the cabbages, and the raspberry beds. Theywould have it out together. But with what attitudesand with what words? Such a dignity was theirs inthis relationship that, turning away, she and Pauland Minta would hide their curiosity and their dis-comfort, and begin picking flowers, throwing balls,chattering, until it was time for dinner, and therethey were, he at one end of the table, she at the other,as usual.

‘Why don’t some of you take up botany?. . . Withall those legs and arms why doesn’t one of you. . .?'232