TO THE LIGHTHOUSEhead, or ran across the grass, or scolded Kennedy,the gardener? Who could tell her? Who couldhelp her?

Against her will she had come to the surface,and found herself half out of the picture, looking,a little dazedly, as if at unreal things, at Mr.Carmichael. He lay on his chair with his handsclasped above his paunch not reading, or sleeping,but basking like a creature gorged with existence.His book had fallen on to the grass.

She wanted to go straight up to him and say,“Mr. Carmichael!” Then he would look upbenevolently as always, from his smoky vaguegreen eyes. But one only woke people if oneknew what one wanted to say to them. And shewanted to say not one thing, but everything.Little words thatbroke up the thought and dis-membered it said nothing. "About life, aboutdeath; about Mrs. Ramsay"—no, she thought,one could say nothing to nobody. The urgencyof the moment always missed its mark. Wordsfluttered sideways and struck the object inches toolow. Then one gave it up; then the idea sunkback again; then one became like most middle-aged people, cautious, furtive, with wrinklesbetween the eyes and a look of perpetual appre-hension. For how could one express in wordsthese emotions of the body? express that empti-274THE LIGHTHOUSEmeant that something had started the sense of her,as still by opening a drawer in a cupboard orlooking at a face—Rose’s for instance—throughone’s fingers one could recover her absolutely fora moment. But it was horrible; t. The strain was    acute. Possibly cancelled by mistake. For in one moment if there was no breeze,his father would slap the covers of his book to-gether, and say: “What’s happening now? Whatare we dawdling about here for, eh?” as, oncebefore he had brought his blade down among themon the terrace and she had gone stiff all over, and ifthere had been an axe handy, a knife, or anythingwith a sharp point he would have seized it andstruck his father through the heart. She had gonestiff all over, and then, her arm slackening, so thathe felt she listened to him no longer, she had risensomehow and gone away and left him there,impotent, ridiculous, sitting on the floor graspinga pair of scissors.

Not a breath of wind blew. The waterchuckled and gurgled in the bottom of the boatwhere three or four mackerel beat their tails upand down in a pool of water not deep enough tocover them. At any moment Mr. Ramsay (hescarcely dared look at him) might rouse himself,shut his book, and say something sharp; but forthe moment he was reading, so that Jamesstealthily, as if he were stealing downstairs on bare287snail, -`ji .*•¤•a¤a•IQ -ka-'J,, ___·“_;,.-__,,__ .~. ___, , ____.
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