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TO THE LIGHTHOUSEa hand was raised as if to clutch something or wardoff something, or somebody groaned, or somebodylaughed aloud as if sharing a joke with nothingness.

Nothing stirred in the drawing-room or in the din-ing-room or on the staircase. Only through the rustyhinges and swollen sea-moistened woodwork certainairs, detached from the body of the wind (the housewas ramshackle after all) crept round corners and ven-tured indoors. Almost one might imagine them, asthey entered the drawing-room, questioning and won-dering, toying with the flap of hanging wall-paper,asking, would it hang much longer, when would itfall? Then smoothly brushing the walls, they passedon musingly as if asking the red and yellow roses onthe wall-paper whether they would fade, and question-ing (gently, for there was time at their disposal) thetorn letters in the wastepaper basket, the flowers, thebooks, all of which were now open to them and ask-ing, Were they allies? Were they enemies? How longwould they endure?

So some random light directing them from an un-covered star, or wandering ship, or the Lighthouseeven, with its pale footfall upon stair and mat, thelittle airs mounted the staircase and nosed round bed-room doors. But here surely, they must cease. What-ever else may perish and disappear what lies here issteadfast. Here one might say to those sliding lights,those fumbling airs, that breathe and bend over thebed itself, here you can neither touch nor destroy.Upon which, wearily, ghostlily, as if they had feather-light fingers and the light persistency of feathers, theywould look once, on the shut eyes and the looselyclasping fingers, and fold their garments wearily and148