252287his travels in Persia forty years ago. And somebody had saidthat when he heard of Andrew Ramsay's death he had lost all interest in life.Perhaps he had walked about the streets holding grasping a large stick.up & downHe had walked about the room, he had drop let his pipe fall, he hadgaped &opened a book, & one by one, the leaves had turned over, by themselves?She didnot know.He had always beenBut he was almost entirely silent.They seldom spoke, except about the train service, & the weatherboat services, & theweather.She had only read scraps of his poetry quoted in reviews.ForBut owing to without reading it she knew how it must of course beit went, slowly & sonorously; with it would have greathisthat qualitywhich she respected felt in him, something seasoned, mellow;?be&as itall sn it would be mature: like An enormous deal of thinkingwould have gone to the making& be completely free frompettiness or prettiness. There might indeed be something stclumsy about it.Had he not always lurched rather awkwardlypast the drawingroom window, with a newspaper under his arm,trying to avoid Mrs. Ramsay, whom, for some reason, he did notmuch like?She would always try to make him stop &talk. He would bow to her.He would halt unwittingly &bow profoundly.want her

Annoyed that he did had did not like her, Mrs. Ramsay wouldoffer all sorts of things: ask questions: was he coats, rugs,newspapers.But it was no good: There was some quality in her whichevidently repelled him. he did not like.He did not like,perhaps, her masterfulness.She was so authoritative, sodirect; &

A slight noise drew her attention to the drawing room window -the squeak of the window hinge, as the light breeze played on thewindow.

There must have been people who disliked her very much, Lilythought.There must have been people who thought her
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