TO THE LIGHTHOUSEfirmed some obscure feeling of his about his owncharacter. The old ladies, he thought, thinking ofthe garden at home, went dragging their chairs abouton the lawn. Old Mrs. Beckwith, for example, wasalways saying how nice it was and how sweet it wasand how they ought to be so proud and they oughtto be so happy, but as a matter of fact, Jamesthought, looking at the Lighthouse stood there onits rock, it’s like that. He looked at his father read-ing fiercely with his legs curled tight. They sharedthat knowledge. "We are driving before a gale—we must sink," he began saying to himself, halfaloud, exactly as his father said it.

Nobody seemed to have spoken for an age. Camwas tired of looking at the sea. Little bits of blackcork had floated past; the fish were dead in thebottom of the boat. Still her father read, and Jameslooked at him and she looked at him, and theyvowed that they would fight tyranny to the death,and he went on reading quite unconscious of whatthey thought. It was thus that he escaped, shethought. Yes, with his great forehead and his greatnose, holding his little mottled book firmly in frontof him, he escaped. You might try to lay hands onhim, but then like a bird, he spread his wings, hefloated off to settle out of your reach somewhere faraway on some desolate stump. She gazed at the im-mense expanse of the sea. The island had grown so302
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