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TO THE LIGHTHOUSEand miraculously raised its burdens, as this sub-lime power, this heavenly gift, and one would nomore disturb it, while it lasted, than break up theshaft of sunlight, lying level across the floor.That people should love like this, that Mr.Bankes should feel this for Mrs. Ramsay (sheglanced at him musing) was helpful, was exalting.She wiped one brush after another upon a pieceof HB: Blue pencil mark possibly indicating page break in the American edition. old rag, menially, on purpose. She tookshelter from the reverence which covered allwomen; she felt herself praised. Let him gaze;she would steal a look at her picture.She could have wept. It was bad, it was bad,it was infinitely bad! She could have done itdifferently of course; the colour could have beenthinned and faded; the shapes etherealised; thatwas how Paunceforte would have seen it. Butthen [∧]she did not see it like that. She saw the colourburning on a framework of steel; the light of abutterfly’s wing lying upon the arches of acathedral. Of all that [∧]onlyVW: Line pointing to caret. —saraheilefsona few random marksscrawled upon the canvas alone[%]remained. Andit would never be boughtseen;never be hung even,and there was Mr. Tansley whispering in herear, “Women can’t paint, women can’t write. . .”She now remembered what she had been goingto say about Mrs. Ramsay. She did not know howgal.19she HB: Pencil marker indicating galley 19 would have put it; but it would have been78
