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THE LIGHTHOUSEBut he made her. You shan’t touch your canvas, heseemed to say, bearing down on her, till you’ve givenme what I want of you. Here he was, close upon heragain, greedy, distraught. Well, thought Lily in des-pair, letting her right hand fall at her side, it wouldbe simpler then to have it over. Surely she could imi-tate from recollection the glow, the rhapsody, the self-surrender she had seen on so many women’s faces(on Mrs. Ramsay’s, for instance) when on some oc-casion like this they blazed up — she could rememberthe look on Mrs. Ramsay’s face — into a rapture ofsympathy, of delight in the reward they had, which,though the reason of it escaped her, evidently con-ferred on them the most supreme bliss of which humannature was capable. Here he was, stopped by her side.She would give him what she could.2

She seemed to have shrivelled slightly, he thought.She looked a little skimpy, wispy; but not unattract-ive. He liked her. There had been some talk of hermarrying William Bankes once, but nothing had comeof it. His wife had been fond of her. He had been alittle out of temper too at breakfast. And then, andthen — this was one of those moments when an enor-mous need urged him, without being conscious whatit was, to approach any woman, to force them, hedid not care how, his need was so great, to give himwhat he wanted: sympathy.

Was anybody looking after her? he said. Had sheeverything she wanted?

'Oh, thanks, everything,' said Lily Briscoe nerv-175