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THE WINDOW 11she would put on her hat. And, with her basket andher parasol, there she was again, ten minutes later,giving out a sense of being ready, of being equippedfor a jaunt, which, however, she must interrupt for amoment, as they passed the tennis lawn, to ask MrCarmichael, who was basking with his yellow cat'seyes ajar, so that like a cat’s they seemed to reflectthe branches moving or the clouds passing, but togive no inkling of any inner thoughts or emotionwhatsoever, if he wanted anything.

For they were making the great expedition, shesaid, laughing. They were going to the town.‘Stamps, writing-paper, tobacco?’ she suggested,stopping by his side. But no, he wanted nothing.His hands clasped themselves over his capaciouspaunch, his eyes blinked, as if he would have liked toreply kindly to these blandishments (she was seduc-tive but a little nervous) but could not, sunk as hewas in a grey-green somnolence which embraced themall, without need of words, in a vast and benevolentlethargy of well-wishing; all the house; all the world;all the people in it, for he had slipped into his glass atlunch a few drops of something, which accounted, thechildren thought, for the vivid streak of canary-yellowin moustache and beard that were otherwise milk-white. He wanted nothing, he murmured.

He should have been a great philosopher, said MrsRamsay, as they went down the road to the fishingvillage, but he had made an unfortunate marriage.Holding her black parasol very erect, and movingwith an indescribable air of expectation, as if shewere going to meet someone round the corner, shetold the story; an affair at Oxford with some girl; an