THE LIGHTHOUSEwent off to the town, to the poor there,[%]to sit insome stuffy little bedroom. Often and often Lilyhad seen her go silently in the midst of somegame, some discussion, with her basket on herarm, very upright. She had noted her return.She had thought, half laughing (she was somethodical with the tea cups) half moved (herbeauty took one’s breath away) eyes that areclosing in pain have looked on you. You havebeen with them there.

And then Mrs. Ramsay would be annoyedbecause somebody was late, or the butter notfresh, or the teapot chipped. And all the timeshe was saying that the butter was not fresh onewould be thinking of anemones and[%]Greektemples, and how beauty had been with themthere in that stuffy little room. She never talkedof it—she went, punctually, directly. It was herinstinct to go, an instinct like the swallows forthe south, the artichokes for the sun, turning herinfallibly to the human race, making her/VW: Slash between the conjoined “hernest” indicating missing space, marked by “#” symbol in margin.#nest inits heart. And this, like all instincts, was a littledistressing to people who did not share it; toMr. Carmichael perhaps, to herself certainly.Some notion was in both of them about theineffectiveness of action, the supremacy of thought,Her going was a reproach to them, gave a differenttwist to the world, so that they were led to protest,303
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