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TO THE LIGHTHOUSEthing else this strange morning the wordsbecame symbols, wrote themselves all over thegrey-green walls. If only she could put themtogether, she felt, write them out in some sentence,then she would have got at the truth of things.Old Mr. Carmichael came padding softly in,fetched his coffee, took his cup and made off tosit in the sun. The extraordinary unreality wasfrightening; but it was also exciting. Going tothe Lighthouse. But what does one send to theLighthouse? Perished. Alone. The grey-greenlight on the wall opposite. The empty places.Such were some of the parts, but how bring themtogether? she asked. As if any interruptionwould break the frail shape she was building onthe table she turned her back to the window lestMr. Ramsay should see her. She must escapesomehow, be alone somewhere. Suddenly sheremembered. When she had sat there last tenyears ago there had been a little sprig or leafpattern on the table-cloth, which she had lookedat in a moment of revelation. There had been aproblem about a foreground of a picture. Movethe tree to the middle, she had said. She hadnever finished that picture. It had been knockingabout in her mind all these years. She wouldpaint that picture now. Where were her paints,she wondered? Her paints, yes. She had left228