223239she had but for days afterwards she had seen her, from sometrick of a painters eye perhaps, raising to her forehead a wreath of white flowers,& stepping with her usual quickness am across the fields, amongwhose folds, for they were distant & the flowers very dim, she hadvanished. Now Prue & Andrew went with her.[?]Inevitablywherever she happened to be, were itLondon or country,her eyethen, clos half closing sought in the real world somecounterpart, something to help out her imagination; & found it ina suggestionof the fieldsof death.Piccadilly, in Bond Street, in the ?moors/?moon too, in all hills that werewere dying out in the evening.SoThe seSo now she looked atinthe sea.But no.At the All these states fade suddenly.But it was always the same. Nothing real is very Real thingsscarcely They are always disturbingDont dream, dont see, reality checked her, recalling her by someunexpected dint or shade. something she could not domesticatea little sail boat, half wayacross the bay.within her mind.Thus Now it was the thought of Mr.Ramsay, recalled by a boat.She thought, that is their boat,I suppose. It is now in the middle of the bay. They had been gone anhour & a half.And again - the weight of her sympathy madeher try to call up the seats & the coil of rope, Cams skirt, James'tie, Mr. Ramsays beautiful boots.
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