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THE WINDOWthings, her own inadequacy, her insignificance,keeping house for her father off the BromptonRoad, and had much ado to control her impulseto fling herself (thank Heaven she had alwaysresisted so far) at Mrs. Ramsay’s knee and sayto her—but what could one say to her? "I’min love with you?" No, that was not true."I’m in love with this all", waving her handat the hedge, at the house, at the children?It was absurd, it was impossible. One couldnot say what one meant. So now she laid herbrushes neatly in the box, side by side, and saidto William Bankes:

"It suddenly gets cold. The sun seems togive less heat," she said, looking about her, for itwas bright enough, the grass still a soft deepgreen, the house starred in its greenery withpurple passion flowers, and rooks dropping coolcries from the high blue. But something moved,flashed, turned a silver wing in the air. It wasSeptember after all, the middle of September, andpast six in the evening. So off they strolled downthe garden in the usual direction, past the tennislawn, past the pampas grass, to that break in thethick hedge, guarded by red-hot pokers likebrasiers of clear burning coal, between whichthe blue waters of the bay looked bluer thanever.35