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TO THE LIGHTHOUSEif the universe were battling and tumbling, in bruteconfusion and wanton lust aimlessly by itself.

In spring the garden urns, casually filled with wind-blown plants, were gay as ever. Violets came and daf-fodils. But the stillness and the brightness of the daywere as strange as the chaos and tumult of night, withthe trees standing there, and the flowers standingthere, looking before them, looking up, yet beholdingnothing, eyeless, and thus terrible.8

Thinking no harm, for the family would not come,never again, some said, and the house would be soldat Michaelmas perhaps, Mrs. McNab stooped andpicked a bunch of flowers to take home with her.She laid them on the table while she dusted. Shewas fond of flowers. It was a pity to let them waste.Suppose the house were sold (she stood arms akimboin front of the looking-glass) it would want seeing to— it would. There it had stood all these years withouta soul in it. The books and things were mouldy, for,what with the war and help being hard to get, thehouse had not been cleaned as she could have wished.It was beyond one person’s strength to get it straightnow. She was too old. Her legs pained her. All thosebooks needed to be laid out on the grass in the sun;there was plaster fallen in the hall; the rain-pipe hadblocked over the study window and let the water in;the carpet was ruined quite. But people should comethemselves; they should have sent somebody down tosee. For there were clothes in the cupboards; theyhad left clothes in all the bedrooms. What was she158