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225183But what was the look she had when she clapped her deer stalkershat on her head, or ran across the lawn in galoshes to find slugs?who could tell her, who could help her?Mr. Carmichael?

He lay on his chair with his hands clasped above his paunchflowing downhis beard with the yellow stain resting upon his breast. He was nolonger reading, but had the appearance of some vast brute which is nowruminating & has gorged itself & is now ruminating.TheHis book,which she took to be the had supplied he was his ?sour source ofthatnourishment, lay fallen on the grass:Lily had a sense of theoverpowering some felt that it gave off theas if theincense of poetry,lay smoking in the grass; & the fumes of wordsthererose permeatedwordsrose slow & ascend through the old man's being brain, being,?ceiling of his mindthe stressescoloured the walls hung ?seasoned & ?salted ?him,as opiumhad, she supposed (it was only Andrew's story)given his body itsbulk, its lethargy, & his eyes their sno smoky look, as ifthe mind burnt behind a deeply behind a [?] clouded window pane.Thus he would lie by the hour, she remembered, &she could still see him slouching past the window, where Mrs.Ramsay sat, furtively, ?& clumsily as if he wishedto escapedetection, but she always stopped him.She could notindure that anyone should feel out of things.feel unhappyShe tried to drawhim in. But somehow she was never successful.She& ?knew that anyoneresented, Lily suspected, anyone who had no need of her.notshould be wld independent of her: that any man should: &have noneed of herMr. Carmichael was the exception among men: hedid not depend on her. was oddly aloof: he had no needs, Lilythought;He shared that unpleasant peculiarity with her.For she had no needs either.She painted; he wrote.But Mrs. Ramsay was - the one who ex putpulled up the weeds, or searched out slugs, (herchildren said she could see a slugs egg half across thegarden) & pried with her spectacles on into dishes,when she was ?broiling dropping laurel or sherry;shred by shred, drop by drop, to concoct someamazing triumph of cookery, wanted so was onlyinfinitely preferredso much preferred life.Could she have stood painting,