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42 TO THE LIGHTHOUSEby some pricking in his toes that he lives, and doesnot on the whole object to live, but requires sym-pathy, and whisky, and someone to tell the story ofhis suffering to at once? Who shall blame him?Who will not secretly rejoice when the hero puts hisarmour off, and halts by the window and gazes at hiswife and son, who very distant at first, graduallycome closer and closer, till lips and book and headare clearly before him, though still lovely and un-familiar from the intensity of his isolation and thewaste of ages and the perishing of the stars, andfinally putting his pipe in his pocket and bending hismagnificent head before her—who will blame him ifhe does homage to the beauty of the world?7

But his son hated him. He hated him for comingup to them, for stopping and looking down on them;he hated him for interrupting them; he hated himfor the exaltation and sublimity of his gestures; forthe magnificence of his head; for his exactingness andegotism (for there he stood, commanding them toattend to him); but most of all he hated the twangand twitter of his father’s emotion which, vibratinground them, disturbed the perfect simplicity andgood sense of his relations with his mother. Bylooking fixedly at the page, he hoped to make himmove on; by pointing his finger at a word, he hopedto recall his mother’s attention, which, he knewangrily, wavered instantly his father stopped. Butno. Nothing would make Mr Ramsay move on.There he stood, demanding sympathy.