TO THE LIGHTHOUSEashamed of her own irritability, when it seemedas if he had shed worries and ambitions, and thehope of sympathy and the desire for praise, hadentered some other region, was drawn on, as ifby curiosity, in dumb colloquy, whether withhimself or another, at the head of that littleprocession out of one’s range. An extraordinaryface! The gate banged.4

So they’re gone, she thought, sighing withrelief and disappointment. Her sympathy seemedto be cast back on her, like a bramble sprungback onacrossher face. She felt curiously divided, asif one part of her were drawn out there—it wasa still day, hazy; the Lighthouse looked thismorning at an immense distance; the other [∧]hadfixeditself doggedly, solidly, here on the lawn. Shesaw her canvas as if it had floated up and placeditself white and uncompromising directly beforeher. It seemed to rebuke her with its cold starefor all this hurry and agitation; this folly andwaste of emotion; it drastically recalled her andspread through her mind first a peace, as her dis-orderly sensations (he had gone and she had beenso sorry for him and she had said nothing)trooped off the field; and then, emptiness. She242
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