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THE WINDOW 19ginning in the garden, as her husband beat up anddown the terrace, something between a croak and asong, she was soothed once more, assured again thatall was well, and looking down at the book on herknee found the picture of a pocket knife with sixblades which could only be cut out if James wasvery careful.

Suddenly a loud cry, as of a sleep-walker, halfroused, something aboutStormed at with shot and shellsung out with the utmost intensity in her ear, madeher turn apprehensively to see if any one heard him.Only Lily Briscoe, she was glad to find; and that didnot matter. But the sight of the girl standing onthe edge of the lawn painting reminded her; she wassupposed to be keeping her head as much in the sameposition as possible for Lily’s picture. Lily’s picture!Mrs Ramsay smiled. With her little Chinese eyesand her puckered-up face she would never marry;one could not take her painting very seriously; butshe was an independent little creature, Mrs Ramsayliked her for it, and so remembering her promise,she bent her head.4

Indeed, he almost knocked her easel over, comingdown upon her with his hands waving, shouting out:'Boldly we rode and well,' but, mercifully, he turnedsharp, and rode off, to die gloriously she supposedupon the heights of Balaclava. Never was anybodyat once so ridiculous and so alarming. But so long