THE LIGHTHOUSEbecame part of ordinary experience, was on a levelwith the chair, with the table. Mrs. Ramsay—itwas part of her perfect goodness to Lily[%]—satthere quite simply, in the chair, flicked her needlesto and fro, knitted her reddish-brown stocking,cast her shadow on the step. There she sat.

And as if she had something she must share,yet could hardly leave her easel, so full her mindwas of what she was thinking and doing,[%]Lilywent past Mr. Carmichael holding her brush tothe edge of the lawn. Where was that boat now?And Mr. Ramsay? She wanted him.13

Mr. Ramsay had almost done reading. Onehand hovered over the page as if to be in readinessto turn it the very instant he had finished it. Hesat there bareheaded with the wind blowing hishair about, extraordinarily exposed to everything.He looked very old. He looked, James thought,getting his head now against the Lighthouse, nowagainst the waste of waters running away into theopen, like some old stone lying on the sand; helooked as if he had become physically what wasalways at the back of both of their minds—thatloneliness which was for both of them the truthabout things.313
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