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THE WINDOWby the hour about his boots) of the two, Lily atforty will be the better. There was in Lily a threadof something; a flare of something; something ofher own which Mrs. Ramsay liked very much in-deed, but no man would, she feared. Obviously, not,unless it were a much older man, like WilliamBankes. But then he cared, well, Mrs. Ramsaysometimes thought that he cared, since his wife’sdeath, perhaps for her. He was not "in love" ofcourse; it was one of those unclassified affectionsof which there are so many. Oh, but nonsense, shethought; William must marry Lily. They have somany things in common. Lily is so fond of flowers.They are both cold and aloof and rather self-suffic-ing. She must arrange for them to take a long walktogether.

Foolishly, she had set them opposite each other.That could be remedied tomorrow. If it were fine,they should go for a picnic. Everything seemed pos-sible. Everything seemed right. Just now (but thiscannot last, she thought, dissociating herself fromthe moment while they were all talking about boots)just now she had reached security; she hovered likea hawk suspended; like a flag floated in an elementof joy which filled every nerve of her body fullyand sweetly, not noisily, solemnly rather, for itarose, she thought, looking at them all eating there,157