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To THE L1GHTHoUsEsunny grass and discolour it, and cast over therubicund, drowsy, entirely contented figure ofMr. Carmichael, reading a French novel on adeck-chair, a veil of crape, as if such an existence,Haunting its prosperity in a world of woe, wereenough to provoke the most dismal thoughts ofall. Look at him, he seemed to be saying, lookat me; and indeed, all the time he was feeling,Think of me, think of me. Ah, could that bulkonly be wafted alongside of them, Lily wished;had she only pitched her easel a yard or two closerto him; a man, any man, would staunch thiseffusion, would stop these lamentations. Awoman, she had provoked this horror; a woman,she should have known how to deal with it. Itwas immensely to her discredit, sexually, to standthere dumb. One said—what did one say?Oh, Mr. Ramsay! Dear Mr. Ramsay! Thatwas what that kind old lady who sketched, Mrs.Beckwith, would have said instantly, and rightly.But no. They stood there, isolated from therest of the world. His immense self-pity, hisdemand for sympathy poured and spread itselfin pools at her feet, and all she did, miserablesinner that she was, was to draw her skirts a littlecloser round her ankles, lest she should get wet.In complete silence she stood there, graspingher paint brush.226