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TO THE LIGHTHOUSELily repeated, turning back, reluctantly again, toher canvas. Heaven be praised for it, theproblem of space remained, she thought, takingup her brush again. It glared at her. Thewhole mass of the picture was poised upon thatweight. Beautiful and bright it should be onthe surface, feathery and evanescent, one colourmelting into another like the colours on abutterfly’s wing; but beneath the fabric mustbe clamped together with bolts of iron. It wasto be a thing you could ruffle with your breath;and a thing you could not dislodge with a teamof horses. And she began to lay on a red, a grey,and she began to model her way into the hollowthere. At the same time, she seemed to besitting beside Mrs. Ramsay on the beach.

"Is it a boat? Is it a cask?" Mrs. Ramsaysaid. And she began hunting round for herspectacles. And she sat, having found them,silent, looking out to sea. And Lily, paintingsteadily, felt as if a door had opened, and one wentin and stood gazing silently about in a highcathedral-like place, very dark, very solemn.Shouts came from a world far away. Steamersvanished in stalks of smoke on the horizon.Charles threw stones and sent them skipping.

Mrs. Ramsay sat silent. She was glad, Lilythought, to rest in silence, uncommunicative; to264