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TO THE LIGHTHOUSEstraight to Mrs. Ramsay sitting reading therewith James at her knee. But now while she stilllooked, Mr. Bankes had done. He had put onhis spectacles. He had stepped back. He hadraised his hand. He had slightly narrowed hisclear blue eyes, when Lily, rousing herself, sawwhat he was at, and winced like a dog who sees ahand raised to strike it. She would have snatchedher picture off the easel, but she said to herself,One must. She braced herself to stand the awfultrial of someone looking at her picture. Onemust, she said, one must. And if it must be seen,Mr. Bankes was less alarming than another. Butthat any other eyes should see the residue of herthirty-three years, the deposit of each day’s living,mixed with something more secret than she hadever spoken or shown in the course of all thosedays was an agony. At the same time it wasimmensely exciting.

Nothing could be cooler and quieter. Takingout a penknife, Mr. Bankes tapped the canvaswith the bone handle. What did she wish toindicate by the triangular purple shape, “justthere?" he asked.

It was Mrs. Ramsay reading to James, shesaid. She knew his objection—that no one couldtell it for a human shape. But she had made noattempt at likeness, she said. For what reason84