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214221why, after all these years had that survived, ringed [?] ringed round, lit up,visible to the last degree of detail, y yet set in a with all before itblank & all after it blank for miles?She sat on the beach writing one of those innumerable letters, whichthe wind sometimes blew away across the sand.'There was the oldcork dripping & bobbing in the sea; Charles Tansley throwing stones;a wave breaking, racing almost up to the rock where Mrs. Ramsaysat, writing, writing, in that little round rapid hand that was so illegible."Is it a boat, is it a cork?" Mrs. Ramsay would say looking up,with one hand on her paper, & Lily herself would be asking(while she watched Charles, so suddenly become transformed).[?] would be imagining, half lulled asleep, yet living with enormoussomeopenedacuteness, how now at this moment the doors were thrown, noiselessly.wide open, & one entered in, & stood silently a gazing about, in ahigh dark cathedral like place, with flags hanging,?things& dimly shakingstatues gleaming, & that cold solemn air such places have,steamer& this was shouts came far away; a boat vanished in a stalk of smokeon the horizon.There, for an appreciable time, she moved,much at her ease, while Charles threw the stones, & they sent themwent skipping over theDid Mrs. Ramsay know it? DidProbably not. She was glad, Lily thought, to rest in silence,incommunicative; to rest to let things to be taken for granted,to rest in the extreme obscurity of human relationships;Whoknows what we are, or what we feel? Aren't things spoilt bysilentlysaying them?Don't we communicate better without words?Aren't we at any rate women better more expressive silentlygliding high together, side by side, in the curious dumbness,which is so much to their taste than speech, with the kingdomsonesof the world displayed down beneath; not asking no share inthem?Some such fee It was something like that, that she