T1-IE LIGHTHOUSEwould 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? ]asper’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 off)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 andHoat and sink in it, yes, for these waters were unfathomably 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 andigrey-greens of flowers:some common feeling which held the wholetogether.

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,or meeting of people (all now gone and separate),295

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