TO THE LIGHTHOUSEartists had come here. There indeed, only a fewpaces off, stood one of them, in Panama hat andyellow boots, seriously, softly, absorbedly, for allthat he was watched by ten little boys, with an airof profound contentment on his round red facegazing, and then, when he had gazed, dipping;imbuing the tip of his brush in some soft moundof green or pink. Since Mr. Paunceforte had beenthere, three years before, all the pictures were likethat[%]she said, green and grey, [∧]with /lemon-coloured,[%]sailing-boats, [∧]andpink women on the beach.

But her grandmother's friends, she said,glancing discreetly as they passed, took thegreatest pains; first they mixed their own colours,and then they [(]HB: Pencil demarking galley break. —peter.shillingsburgground them, and then they hadgal 5the greatest care with[%]putdamp cloths to keep themmoist.

So Mr. Tansley supposed she meant him to seethat that man's picture was skimpy, was that whatone said? The colors weren't solid? Was thatwhat one said? Under the influence of that ex-traordinary emotion which had been growing allthe walk, beginninghadbegunin the garden when he hadwanted to take her bag, and thenhadincreasedin the town whenhe had wanted to tell her everything about him-self, he was coming to see himself, O[%]and every-thing he had ever known,[%]gone crooked a little.It was awfully strange.26
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