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TO THE LIGHTHOUSE"Lily," she said, wearily, "over there." Theyhad that—Paul Rayley and Minta Doyle—she,only this—an infinitely long table and plates andknives. At the far end, was her husband, sittingdown, all in a heap, frowning. What at? Shedid not know. She did not mind. She could notunderstand how she had ever felt any emotion orany affection for him. She had a sense of beingpast everything, through everything, out of every-thing, as she helped the soup, as if there was aneddy—there—and one could be in it, or onecould be out of it, and she was out of it. It’s allcome to an end, she thought, while they came inone after another, Charles Tansley—“Sit there,please," she said—Augustus Carmichael—and satdown. And meanwhile she waited, passively, forsomeone to answer her, for something to happen.But this is not a thing, she thought, ladling outsoup, that one says.

Raising her eyebrows at the discrepancy—thatwas what she was thinking, this was what shewas doing—ladling out soup—she felt, more andmore strongly, outside that eddy; or as if a shadehad fallen, and, robbed of colour, she saw thingstruly. The room (she looked round it) wasvery shabby. There was no beauty anywhere.She forebore to look at Mr. Tansley. Nothingseemed to have merged. They all sat separate.130