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THE WINDOWCould loving, as people called it, make her andMrs. Ramsay one? for it was not knowledge butunity that she desired, not inscriptions on tablets,nothing that could be written in any languageknown to men, but intimacy itself, which isknowledge, she had thought, leaning her head onMrs. Ramsay’s knee.

Nothing happened. Nothing! Nothing! asshe leant her head against Mrs. Ramsay’s knee.And yet, she knew knowledge and wisdom werestored in Mrs. Ramsay’s heart. How then, shehad asked herself, did one know one thing oranother thing about people, sealed as they were?Only like a bee, drawn by some sweetness orsharpness in the air intangible to touch or taste,one haunted the dome-shaped hive, ranged thewastes of the air over the countries of the worldalone, and then haunted the hives with theirmurmurs and their stirrings; the hives whichwere people. Mrs. Ramsay rose. Lily rose.Mrs. Ramsay went. For days there hung abouther, as after a dream some subtle change is feltin the person one has dreamt of, more vividlythan anything she said, the sound of murmuringand, as she sat in the wicker arm-chair in thedrawing-room window she wore, to Lily’s eyes,an august shape; the shape of a dome.

This ray passed level with Mr. Bankes’s ray83