2749279how there was nothing for it but to shut ones eyes to that picture for a time,wait; miserable in such patienceas she could command: trying tounderstandwhat her problem was.What was her problem then?She was trying to get hold of somethingwhich evaded her.It evaded her - when she thought of theview picture, & when she thought of Mrs. Ramsay.Phrases came. Visions came.But what she wantedto get hold ofwas that very jar on the nerves, the thing itself before it has beenmade anything:the germ, in painting, in knowing, of all art&affection.Get that again, & start afresh, was all the adviceshe could give herself.But one got nothing by solicitingurgently.One got only a glare in the eyes from looking at theline of the wall, or thinkingMrs. Ramsay often worevelvet shoes, & a shawl. greenshawl, if the weatherwas raining.AMiserable inefficient machine, thehumanapparatus, forpainting & caringshe thought, always always breakingdown at the criticalmomentcapricious, incalculable.The whole machinegaveout: &then where was one?

Well here on the lawn, she thought, kneeling to squeeze out aa little more grass green, though she did not intend topaint any paint - only to do a ?litt little donkey work atthe corner of the canvas.Kneeling on the lawn, which,shemade herself observe,was rather hard, for it had been on thewhole a dry summer.There were colonies of plantainspottingitaboutwhich ought to bekilled.[One of the children used to be sentround with a]The rooks were roll flying aboutin away which suggested [?] autumndecorativelymakingblackcrescents,scimitarswithin the airwith theirwings;And then there was Mr.she would have liked to attract Mr. Carmichaels noticesomehow; or even to have rifled his stock of ideas, orstarted one of those aimless pu pointless pleasantconversations which all about nothing.
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