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THE LIGHTHOUSEamong the clean cups at the long table she feltcut off from other people, and able only to go onwatching, asking, wondering. The house, theplace, the morning, all seemed strangers to her.She had no attachment here, she felt, no relationswith it, anything might happen, and whatever didhappen, a step outside, a voice calling ("It's notin the cupboard; it’s on the landing,” some onecried), was a question, as if the link that usuallybound things together had been cut, and theyfloated up here, down there, off, anyhow. Howaimless it was, how chaotic, how unreal it was, shethought, looking at her empty coffee cup. Mrs.Ramsay dead; Andrew killed; Prue dead too—repeat it as she might, it roused no feeling in her.And we all get together in a house like this on aHB: Pencil line indicating galley 56.outsetgal56morning HB: Pencil line indicating galley 56.like this, she said, looking out of thewindow. It was a beautiful still day.Suddenly Mr. Ramsay raised his head as hepassed and looked straight at her, with hisdistraught wild gaze which was yet so penetrating,as if he saw you, for one second, for the first time,for ever; and she pretended to drink out of herempty coffee cup so as to escape him—to escapehis demand on her, to put aside a moment longerthat imperious need. And he shook his head ather, and strode on ("Alone" she heard him say,“Perished" she heard him say) and like every-227
