TO THE LIGHTHOUSEwonderful boots, carrying brown paper parcels,down the path, his children following him. Theylooked, she thought, as if fate had devoted themto some stern enterprise, and they went to it, stillyoung enough to be drawn acquiescent in theirfather’s wake, obediently, but with a pallor intheir eyes which made her feel that they suffered,[%]something beyond their years,[%]in silence. So theypassed the edge of the lawn, and it seemed to Lilythat she watched a procession go, drawn on bysome stress of common feeling which made it,faltering and flagging as it was, a little companybound together and strangely impressive to 60HB: Black pencil line from Politely, to Galley 60.Politely, but very distantly, Mr. Ramsay raised hishand and saluted her as they passed.

But what a face, she thought, immediatelyfinding the sympathy which she had not beenasked to give him[%]troubling her for expression.What had made it like that? Thinking, nightafter night, she supposed—about the reality ofkitchen tables, she added, remembering thesymbol which in her vagueness as to what Mr.Ramsay did think about Andrew had given her.(He had been killed by the splinter of a shellinstantly, she bethought her.) The kitchen tablewas something visionary, austere; something bare,hard, not ornamental. There was no colour to it;it was all edges and angles; it was uncompromis-240
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