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TO THE LIGHTHOUSEalong a passage one darkmorningstretched his arms out, but Mrs.Ramsay having died rather suddenly the nightbefore he stumbled along the passage stretchinghis arms out.his arms, though stretched out,remained empty]4So with the house empty and the doors lockedand the mattresses rolled round, those stray airs,advance guards of great armies, blustered in,brushed bare boards, nibbled and fanned, metnothing in bedroom or drawing-room that whollyresisted them but only hangings that flapped,wood that creaked, the bare legs of tables, sauce-pans and china already furred, tarnished, cracked.What people had shed and left—a pair of shoes,a shooting cap, some faded skirts and coats inwardrobes—those alone kept the human shapeand in the emptiness indicated how once they were outsetgal50filled and animated; how once hands were busywith hooks and buttons; how once the looking-glass had held a face; had held a world hollowedout in which a figure turned, a hand flashed, thedoor opened, in came children rushing andtumbling; and went out again. Now, day afterday, light turned, like a flower reflected in water,its sharp image on the wall opposite. Only theshadows of the trees, flourishing in the wind,made obeisance on the wall, and for a moment200
