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TO THE LIGHTHOUSELook at him now, she wanted to say aloud toJames. (But James had his eye on the sail.)He is a sarcastic brute, James would say. Hebrings the talk round to himself and his books,James would say. He is intolerably egotistical.Worst of all, he is a tyrant. But look! shesaid, looking at him. Look at him now. Shelooked at him reading the little book with hislegs curled; the little book whose yellowish pagesshe knew, without knowing what was writtenon them. It was small; it was closely printed;on the fly-leaf, she knew, he had written that hehad spent fifteen francs on dinner; the wine hadbeen so much; he had given so much to thewaiter; all was added up neatly at the bottom ofthe page. But what might be written in the bookwhich had rounded its edges off in his pocket, shedid not know. What he thought they none ofthem knew. But he was absorbed in it, so thatwhen he looked up, as he did now for an instant, itwas not to see anything; it was to pin down somethought more exactly. That done, his mindflew back again and he plunged into his reading.He read, she thought, as if he were guiding some-thing, or wheedling a large flock of sheep, orpushing his way up and up a single narrow path;and sometimes he went fast and straight, and brokehis way through the thicket, and sometimes it292