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TO THE LIGHTHOUSE11

So much depends then, thought Lily Briscoe, look-ing at the sea which had scarcely a stain on it, whichwas so soft that the sails and the clouds seemed set inits blue, so much depends, she thought, upon distance:whether people are near us or far from us; for herfeeling for Mr. Ramsay changed as he sailed furtherand further across the bay. It seemed to be elongated,stretched out; he seemed to become more and moreremote. He and his children seemed to be swallowedup in that blue, that distance; but here, on the lawn,close at hand, Mr. Carmichael suddenly grunted. Shelaughed. He clawed his book up from the grass. Hesettled into his chair again puffing and blowing likesome sea monster. That was different altogether, be-cause he was so near. And now again all was quiet.They must be out of bed by this time, she supposed,looking at the house, but nothing appeared there. Butthen, she remembered, they had always made offdirectly a meal was over, on business of their own. Itwas all in keeping with this silence, this emptiness,and the unreality of the early morning hour. It wasa way things had sometimes, she thought, lingeringfor a moment and looking at the long glittering win-dows and the plume of blue smoke: they becameunreal. So coming back from a journey, or after anillness, before habits had spun themselves across thesurface, one felt that same unreality, which was sostartling; felt something emerge. Life was most vividthen. One could be at one’s ease. Mercifully one neednot say, very briskly, crossing the lawn to greet oldMrs. Beckwith, who would be coming out to find a222