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THE LIGHTHOUSEthem in the hall last night. She would start at once.She got up quickly, before Mr. Ramsay turned.

She fetched herself a chair. She pitched hereasel with her precise old maidish movements onthe edge of the lawn, not too close to Mr.Carmichael, but close enough for his protection.Yes, it must have been precisely here that shehad stood ten years ago. There was the wall;the hedge; the tree. The question was of somerelation between those masses. She had borne itin her mind all these years. It seemed as if thesolution had come to her: she knew now whatshe wanted to do.

But with Mr. Ramsay bearing down on her,she could do nothing. Every time he approached—he was walking up and down the terrace—ruinapproached, chaos approached. She could notpaint. She stooped, she turned; she took up thisrag; she squeezed that tube. But all she did wasto ward him off a moment. He made it impossiblefor her to do anything. For if she gave him theleast chance, if he saw her disengaged a moment,looking his way a moment, he would be on her,saying, as he had said last night, "You find usmuch changed." Last night he had got up andstopped before her, and said that. Dumb andstaring though they had all sat, the six childrenwhom they used to call after the Kings and Queens229