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TO THE LIGHTHOUSEno. They could not tell her anything, with all thesepeople about. So she must go down and begin dinnerand wait. And, like some queen who, finding her peo-ple gathered in the hall, looks down upon them, anddescends among them, and acknowledges their trib-utes silently, and accepts their devotion and their pros-tration before her (Paul did not move a muscle butlooked straight before him as she passed), she wentdown, and crossed the hall and bowed her head veryslightly, as if she accepted what they could not say:their tribute to her beauty.

But she stopped. There was a smell of burning.Could they have let the BÅ“uf en Daube overboil, shewondered? pray heaven not? when the great clangourof the gong announced solemnly, authoritatively, thatall those scattered about, in attics, in bedrooms, onlittle perches of their own, reading, writing, puttingthe last smooth to their hair, or fastening dresses, mustleave all that, and the little odds and ends on theirwashing-tables and dressing-tables, and the novels onthe bed-tables, and the diaries which were so private,and assemble in the dining-room for dinner.17

But what have I done with my life? thought Mrs.Ramsay, taking her place at the head of the table, andlooking at all the plates making white circles on it.‘William, sit by me,’ she said. ‘Lily,’ she said, wearily,‘over there.’ They had that — Paul Rayley and MintaDoyle — she, only this — an infinitely long table andplates and knives. At the far end, was her husband,sitting down, all in a heap, frowning. What at? She98