TO THE LIGHTHOUSEfor praise, had entered some other region, was drawnon, as if by curiosity, in dumb colloquy, whether withhimself or another, at the head of that little processionout of one’s range. An extraordinary face! The gatebanged.3

So they’re gone, she thought, sighing with relief anddisappointment. Her sympathy seemed to fly back inher face, like a bramble sprung. She felt curiouslydivided, as if one part of her were drawn out there —it was a still day, hazy; the Lighthouse looked thismorning at an immense distance; the other had fixeditself doggedly, solidly, here on the lawn. She saw hercanvas as if it had floated up and placed itself whiteand uncompromising directly before her. It seemedto rebuke her with its cold stare for all this hurry andagitation; this folly and waste of emotion; it drasticallyrecalled her and spread through her mind first a peace,as her disorderly sensations (he had gone and she hadbeen so sorry for him and she had said nothing) troopedoff the field; and then, emptiness. She looked blanklyat the canvas, with its uncompromising white stare;from the canvas to the garden. There was something(she stood screwing up her little Chinese eyes in hersmall puckered face) something she remembered inthe relations of those lines cutting across, slicing down,and in the mass of the hedge with its green cave ofblues and browns, which had stayed in her mind;which had tied a knot in her mind so that at odds

and ends of time, involuntarily, as she walked along

the Brompton Road, as she brushed her hair, she found

herself painting that picture, passing her eye over it,

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