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THE LIGHTHOUSEpage. But what might be written in the book whichhad rounded its edges off in his pocket, she didnot know. What he thought they none of themknew. But he was absorbed in it, so that when helooked up, as he did now for an instant, it was notto see anything; it was to pin down some thoughtmore exactly. That done, his mind flew back againand he plunged into his reading. He read, she thought,as if he were guiding something, or wheedling a largeflock of sheep, or pushing his way up and up a singlenarrow path; and sometimes he went fast and straight,and broke his way through the thicket, and sometimesit seemed a branch struck at him, a bramble blindedhim, but he was not going to let himself be beatenby that; on he went, tossing over page after page.And she went on telling herself a story about escapingfrom a sinking ship, for she was safe, while he satthere; safe, as she felt herself when she crept in fromthe garden, and took a book down, and the old gentle-man, lowering the paper suddenly, said somethingvery brief over the top of it about the character ofNapoleon.

She gazed back over the sea, at the island. But theleaf was losing its sharpness. It was very small; itwas very distant. The sea was more important nowthan the shore. Waves were all round them, tossingand sinking, with a log wallowing down one wave;a gull riding on another. About here, she thought,dabbling her fingers in the water, a ship had sunk,and she murmured, dreamily, half asleep, how weperished, each alone.221