THE LIGHTHOUSEall those visitors, one had constantly a sense of repe-tition — of one thing falling where another had fallen,and so setting up an echo which chimed in the air andmade it full of vibrations.

But it would be a mistake, she thought, thinkinghow they walked off together, she in her green shawl,he with his tie flying, arm in arm, past the greenhouse,to simplify their relationship. It was no monotony ofbliss — she with her impulses and quicknesses; hewith his shudders and glooms. Oh no. The bedroomdoor would slam violently early in the morning. Hewould start from the table in a temper. He wouldwhizz his plate through the window. Then all throughthe house there would be a sense of doors slammingand blinds fluttering as if a gusty wind were blowingand people scudded about trying in a hasty way tofasten hatches and make things shipshape. She hadmet Paul Rayley like that one day on the stairs. Theyhad laughed and laughed, like a couple of children,all because Mr. Ramsay, finding an earwig in hismilk at breakfast had sent the whole thing flyingthrough the air on to the terrace outside. ‘An earwig,’Prue murmured, awestruck, ‘in his milk.’ Other peoplemight find centipedes. But he had built round himsuch a fence of sanctity, and occupied the space withsuch a demeanour of majesty that an earwig in hismilk was a monster.

But it tired Mrs. Ramsay, it cowed her a little —the plates whizzing and the doors slamming. And therewould fall between them sometimes long rigid silences,when, in a state of mind which annoyed Lily in her,half plaintive, half resentful, she seemed unable tosurmount the tempest calmly, or to laugh as they231
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