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TO THE LIGHTHOUSEits lines running up and across, its attempt atsomething. It would be hung in the attics, shethought; it would be destroyed. But what didthat matter? she asked herself, taking up herbrush again. She looked at the steps; they wereempty; she looked at her canvas; it was blurred.With a sudden intensity, as if she saw it clear for asecond, she drew a line there, in the centre. Itwas done; it was finished. Yes, she thought,laying down her brush in extreme fatigue, I havehad my vision.THE END