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TO THE LIGHTHOUSEof England—the Red, the Fair, the Wicked, theRuthless,—she felt how they raged under it.Kind old Mrs. Beckwith said something sensible.But it was a house full of unrelated passions—shehad felt that all the evening. And on top of thischaos Mr. Ramsay got up, pressed her hand, andsaid: “You will find us much changed" andnone of them had moved or had spoken; but hadsat there as if they were forced to let him say it.Only James (certainly the Sullen) scowled at thelamp; and Cam screwed her handkerchief roundher finger. Then he reminded them that theywere going to the Lighthouse to-morrow. Theymust be ready, in the hall, on the stroke of half-past seven. Then, with his hand on the door,he stopped; he turned upon them. Did they notwant to go? he demanded. Had they dared sayNo (he had some reason for wanting it) he wouldhave flung himself tragically backwards into thebitter waters of despair. Such a gift he hadfor gesture. He looked like a king in exile.Doggedly James said yes. Cam stumbled morewretchedly. Yes, oh yes, they’d both be ready,they said. And it struck her, this was tragedy—not palls, dust, and the shroud; but childrencoerced, their spirits subdued. James was sixteen,Cam seventeen, perhaps. She had looked roundfor someone who was not there, for Mrs. Ramsay,230