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Chapter 17

           Hewasreally,LilyBriscoethought,inspiteofhiseyes,butthenlookathisnose,lookathishands,themostuncharminghumanbeingshehadevermet.Thenwhydidshemindwhathesaid?Womencan’twrite,womencan’tpaintwhatdidthatmattercomingfromhim,sinceclearlyitwasnottruetohimbutforsomereasonhelpfultohim,andthatwaswhyhesaidit?Whydidherwholebeingbow,likecornunderawind,anderectitselfagainfromthisabasementonlywithagreatandratherpainfuleffort?Shemustmakeitoncemore.There’sthesprigonthetable-cloth;there’smypainting;Imustmovethetreetothemiddle;thatmattersnothingelse.Couldshenotholdfasttothat,sheaskedherself,andnotlosehertemper,andnotargue;andifshewantedrevengetakeitbylaughingathim?

           "Oh,Mr.Tansley,"shesaid,"dotakemetotheLighthousewithyou.Ishouldsoloveit."

           Shewastellinglieshecouldsee.Shewassayingwhatshedidnotmeantoannoyhim,forsomereason.Shewaslaughingathim.Hewasinhisoldflanneltrousers.Hehadnoothers.Hefeltveryroughandisolatedandlonely.Heknewthatshewastryingtoteasehimforsomereason;shedidn’twanttogototheLighthousewithhim;shedespisedhim:sodidPrueRamsay;sodidtheyall.Buthewasnotgoingtobemadeafoolofbywomen,soheturneddeliberatelyinhischairandlookedoutofthewindowandsaid,allinajerk,veryrudely,itwouldbetooroughforhertomorrow.Shewouldbesick.

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