Chapter 11

           Somuchdependsthen,thoughtLilyBriscoe,lookingattheseawhichhadscarcelyastainonit,whichwassosoftthatthesailsandthecloudsseemedsetinitsblue,somuchdepends,shethought,upondistance:whetherpeoplearenearusorfarfromus;forherfeelingforMr.Ramsaychangedashesailedfurtherandfurtheracrossthebay.Itseemedtobeelongated,stretchedout;heseemedtobecomemoreandmoreremote.Heandhischildrenseemedtobeswallowedupinthatblue,thatdistance;buthere,onthelawn,closeathand,Mr.Carmichaelsuddenlygrunted.Shelaughed.Heclawedhisbookupfromthegrass.Hesettledintohischairagainpuffingandblowinglikesomeseamonster.Thatwasdifferentaltogether,becausehewassonear.Andnowagainallwasquiet.Theymustbeoutofbedbythistime,shesupposed,lookingatthehouse,butnothingappearedthere.Butthen,sheremembered,theyhadalwaysmadeoffdirectlyamealwasover,onbusinessoftheirown.Itwasallinkeepingwiththissilence,thisemptiness,andtheunrealityoftheearlymorninghour.Itwasawaythingshadsometimes,shethought,lingeringforamomentandlookingatthelongglitteringwindowsandtheplumeofbluesmoke:theybecameillness,beforehabitshadspunthemselvesacrossthesurface,onefeltthatsameunreality,whichwassostartling;feltsomethingemerge.Lifewasmostvividthen.Onecouldbeatone’sease.