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144 TO THE LIGHTHOUSEdid. He could say things—she never could. Sonaturally it was always he that said the things, andthen for some reason he would mind this suddenly,and would reproach her. A heartless woman hecalled her; she never told him that she loved him.But it was not so—it was not so. It was only thatshe never could say what she felt. Was there nocrumb on his coat? Nothing she could do for him?Getting up she stood at the window with the reddish-brown stocking in her hands, partly to turn awayfrom him, partly because she did not mind lookingnow, with him watching, at the Lighthouse. Forshe knew that he had turned his head as she turned;he was watching her. She knew that he was think-ing, You are more beautiful than ever. And she feltherself very beautiful. Will you not tell me just foronce that you love me? He was thinking that, forhe was roused, what with Minta and his book, and itsbeing the end of the day and their having quarrelledabout going to the Lighthouse. But she could notdo it; she could not say it. Then, knowing that hewas watching her, instead of saying anything sheturned, holding her stocking, and looked at him.And as she looked at him she began to smile, forthough she had not said a word, he knew, of coursehe knew, that she loved him. He could not deny it.And smiling she looked out of the window and said(thinking to herself, Nothing on earth can equal thishappiness)—

‘Yes, you were right. It’s going to be wet to-morrow.' She had not said it, but he knew it. Andshe looked at him smiling. For she had triumphedagain.