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THE LIGHTHOUSEgiven him what, now that they were off, she wouldnot have the chance of giving him. For she felt asudden emptiness; a frustration. Her feeling hadcome too late; there it was ready; but he no longerneeded it. He had become a very distinguished,elderly man, who had no need of her whatsoever.She felt snubbed. He slung a knapsack round hisshoulders. He shared out the parcels—there werea number of them, ill tied in brown paper. He sentCam for a cloak. He had all the appearance of aleader making ready for an expedition. Then, wheel-ing about, he led the way with his firm militarytread, in those wonderful boots, carrying brownpaper parcels, down the path, his children follow-ing him. They looked, she thought, as if fate haddevoted them to some stern enterprise, and theywent to it, still young enough to be drawn ac-quiescent in their father’s wake, obediently, but witha pallor in their eyes which made her feel that theysuffered something beyond their years in silence.So they passed the edge of the lawn, and it seemedto Lily that she watched a procession go, drawnon by some stress of common feeling which made it,faltering and flagging as it was, a little companybound together and strangely impressive to her.Politely, but very distantly, Mr. Ramsay raisedhis hand and saluted her as they passed.231