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THE WINDOW 21eyes superior to that young lady. Now, for instance,when Ramsay bore down on them, shouting, gesticu-lating, Miss Briscoe, he felt certain, understood.Someone had blundered.

Mr Ramsay glared at them. He glared at themwithout seeming to see them. That did make themboth vaguely uncomfortable. Together they hadseen a thing they had not been meant to see. Theyhad encroached upon a privacy. So, Lily thought,it was probably an excuse of his for moving, forgetting out of earshot, that made Mr Bankes almostimmediately say something about its being chillyand suggest taking a stroll. She could come, yes.But it was with difficulty that she took her eyes offher picture.

The jacmanna was bright violet; the wall staringwhite. She would not have considered it honest totamper with the bright violet and the staring white,since she saw them like that, fashionable though it

was, since Mr Paunceforte’s visit, to see everythingpale, elegant, semi-transparent. Then beneath thecolour there was the shape. She could see it all soclearly, so commandingly, when she looked: it waswhen she took her brush in hand that the whole thingchanged. It was in that moment’s flight betweenthe picture and her canvas that the demons set onher who often brought her to the verge of tears andmade this passage from conception to work as dread-ful as any down a dark passage for a child. Suchshe often felt herself—struggling against terrific oddsto maintain her courage; to say: ‘But this is what Isee; this is what I see,’ and so to clasp some miserableB 949