THE LIGHTHOUSEease. Mercifully one need not say, very briskly,crossing the lawn to greet old Mrs. Beckwith, whowould be coming out to find a corner to sit in,“Oh good-morning, Mrs. Beckwith! What alovely day! Are you going to be so bold as to sitin the sun? Jasper’s hidden the chairs. Do let mefind you one!" and all the rest of the usualchatter. One need not speak at all. One glided,one shook one’s sails (there was a good deal ofmovement in the bay, boats were starting offVW: Dash is struck through.[∧] )between things, beyond things. Empty it was not,but full to the brim. She seemed to be standingup to the lips in some substance, to move andfloat and sink in it, yes, for these waters were un-fathomably deep. Into them had spilled so manylives. The Ramsays’; the children’s; and allsorts of waifs and strays of things besides. Awasherwoman with her basket; a rook, a red-hotpoker; the purples and grey-greens of flowers:and something holding it together.[∧]Some common feelingheld thewhole.

It was some such feeling of completenessperhaps which, ten years ago, standing almostwhere she stood now, had made her say that shemust be in love with the place. Love had athousand shapes. There might be lovers whosegift it was to choose out the elements of thingsand place them together and so, giving them awholeness not theirs in life, make of some scene,297
whole.
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