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Chapter 1

           Shewasdead.

           Butwhyrepeatthisoverandoveragain?Whybealwaystryingtobringupsomefeelingshehadnotgot?Therewasakindofblasphemyinit.Itwasalldry:allwithered:allspent.Theyoughtnottohaveaskedher;sheoughtnottohavecome.Onecan’twasteone’stimeatforty-four,shethought.Shehatedplayingatpainting.Abrush,theonedependablethinginaworldofstrife,ruin,chaosthatoneshouldnotplaywith,knowinglyeven:shedetestedit.Buthemadeher.Youshan’ttouchyourcanvas,heseemedtosay,bearingdownonher,tillyou’vegivenmewhatIwantofyou.Herehewas,closeuponheragain,greedy,distraught.Well,thoughtLilyindespair,lettingherrighthandfallatherside,itwouldbesimplerthentohaveitover.Surely,shecouldimitatefromrecollectiontheglow,therhapsody,theself-surrender,shehadseenonsomanywomen’sfaces(onMrs.Ramsay’s,forinstance)whenonsomeoccasionlikethistheyblazedupshecouldrememberthelookonMrs.Ramsay’sfaceintoaraptureofsympathy,ofdelightintherewardtheyhad,which,thoughthereasonofitescapedher,evidentlyconferredonthemthemostsupremeblissofwhichhumannaturewascapable.Herehewas,stoppedbyherside.Shewouldgivehimwhatshecould.

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