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Chapter 17

           Here,shefelt,puttingthespoondown,whereonecouldmoveorrest;couldwaitnow(theywereallhelped)listening;couldthen,likeahawkwhichlapsessuddenlyfromitshighstation,flauntandsinkonlaughtereasily,restingherwholeweightuponwhatattheotherendofthetableherhusbandwassayingaboutthesquarerootofonethousandtwohundredandfifty-three.Thatwasthenumber,itseemed,onhiswatch.

           Whatdiditallmean?Tothisdayshehadnonotion.Asquareroot?Whatwasthat?Hersonsknew.Sheleantonthem;oncubesandsquareroots;thatwaswhattheyweretalkingaboutnow;onVoltaireandMadamedeStael;onthecharacterofNapoleon;ontheFrenchsystemoflandtenure;onLordRosebery;onCreevey’sMemoirs:sheletitupholdherandsustainher,thisadmirablefabricofthemasculineintelligence,whichranupanddown,crossedthiswayandthat,likeirongirdersspanningtheswayingfabric,upholdingtheworld,sothatshecouldtrustherselftoitutterly,evenshuthereyes,orflickerthemforamoment,asachildstaringupfromitspillowwinksatthemyriadlayersoftheleavesofatree.Thenshewokeup.Itwasstillbeingfabricated.WilliamBankeswaspraisingtheWaverlynovels.

           Hereadoneofthemeverysixmonths,hesaid.AndwhyshouldthatmakeCharlesTansleyangry?Herushedin(all,thoughtMrs.Ramsay,becausePruewillnotbenicetohim)anddenouncedtheWaverlynovelswhenheknewnothingaboutit,nothingaboutitwhatsoever,Mrs.Ramsaythought,observinghimratherthanlisteningtowhathesaid.

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