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THE LIGHTHOUSEingly plain. But Mr. Ramsay kept always hiseyes fixed upon it, never allowed himself to bedistracted or deluded, until his face became worntoo and ascetic and partook of this unornamentedbeauty which so deeply impressed her. Then, sherecalled (standing where he had left her, holdingher brush), worries had fretted it—not so nobly.He must have had his doubts about that table, shesupposed; whether the table was a real table;whether it was worth the time he gave to it;whether he was able after all to find it. He hadhad doubts, she felt, or he would have asked lessof people. That was what they talked about lateat night sometimes, she suspected; and then nextday Mrs. Ramsay looked tired, and Lily flew intoa rage with him over some absurd little thing.But now he had nobody to talk to about that table,or his boots, or his knots; and he was like a lionseeking whom he could devour, and his face hadthat touch of desperation, of exaggeration in itwhich alarmed her, and made her pull her skirtsabout her. And then, she recalled, there was thatsudden revivication, that sudden flare (when shepraised his boots), that sudden recovery of vitalityand interest in ordinary human things, which toopassed and changed (for he was always changing,and hid nothing) into that other final phase whichwas new to her and had, she owned, made herselfQ241