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TO THE LIGHTHOUSEat once. She got up quickly, before Mr. Ramsayturned.

She fetched herself a chair. She pitched her easelwith her precise old maidish movements on the edgeof the lawn, not too close to Mr. Carmichael, butclose enough for his protection. Yes, it must have beenprecisely here that she had stood ten years ago. Therewas the wall; the hedge; the tree. The question wasof some relation between those masses. She had borneit in her mind all these years. It seemed as if the so-lution had come to her; she knew now what she want-ed to do.

But with Mr. Ramsay bearing down on her, shecould do nothing. Every time he approached — hewas walking up and down the terrace — ruin ap-proached, chaos approached. She could not paint.She stooped, she turned; she took up this rag; shesqueezed that tube. But all she did was to ward himoff a moment. He made it impossible for her to doanything. For if she gave him the least chance, ifhe saw her disengaged a moment, looking his waya moment, he would be on her, saying, as he hadsaid last night, ‘You find us much changed.' Last nighthe had got up and stopped before her, and said that.Dumb and staring though they had all sat, the sixchildren whom they used to call after the Kings andQueens of England — the Red, the Fair, the Wicked,the Ruthless, — she felt how they raged under it.Kind old Mrs. Beckwith said something sensible.But it was a house full of unrelated passions — shehad felt that all the evening. And on top of thischaos Mr. Ramsay got up, pressed her hand, and

said: ‘You will find us much changed’ and none of

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