180 TO THE LIGHTHOUSEwas what they talked about late at night sometimes,she suspected; and then next day Mrs Ramsay lookedtired, and Lily flew into a rage with him over someabsurd little thing. But now he had nobody to talkto about that table, or his boots, or his knots; andhe was like a lion seeking whom he could devour, andhis face had that touch of desperation, of exaggera-tion in it which alarmed her, and made her pull herskirts about her. And then, she recalled, there wasthat sudden revivification, that sudden flare (whenshe praised his boots), that sudden recovery ofvitality and interest in ordinary human things,which too passed and changed (for he was alwayschanging, and hid nothing) into that other finalphase which was new to her and had, she owned,made herself ashamed of her own irritability, whenit seemed as if he had shed worries and ambitions,and the hope of sympathy and the desire for praise,had entered some other region, was drawn on, as ifby curiosity, in dumb colloquy, whether with him-self or another, at the head of that little processionout of one’s range. An extraordinary face! Thegate banged.4

So they’re gone, she thought, sighing with reliefand disappointment. Her sympathy seemed to flyback in her face, like a bramble sprung. She feltcuriously divided, as if one part of her were drawnout there—it was a still day, hazy; the Lighthouselooked this morning at an immense distance; theother had fixed itself doggedly, solidly, here on thelawn. She saw her canvas as if it had floated up and
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