Chapter 3

           Sothey’regone,shethought,sighingwithreliefanddisappointment.Hersympathyseemedtobecastbackonher,likeabramblesprungacrossherface.Shefeltcuriouslydivided,asifonepartofherweredrawnoutthere—itwasastillday,hazy;theLighthouselookedthismorningatanimmensedistance;theotherhadfixeditselfdoggedly,solidly,hereonthelawn.Shesawhercanvasasifithadfloatedupandplaceditselfwhiteanduncompromisingdirectlybeforeher.Itseemedtorebukeherwithitscoldstareforallthishurryandagitation;thisfollyandwasteofemotion;itdrasticallyrecalledherandspreadthroughhermindfirstapeace,asherdisorderlysensations(hehadgoneandshehadbeensosorryforhimandshehadsaidnothing)troopedoffthefield;andthen,emptiness.Shelookedblanklyatthecanvas,withitsuncompromisingwhitestare;fromthecanvastothegarden.Therewassomething(shestoodscrewingupherlittleChineseeyesinhersmallpuckeredface),somethingsherememberedintherelationsofthoselinescuttingacross,slicingdown,andinthemassofthehedgewithitsgreencaveofbluesandbrowns,whichhadstayedinhermind;whichhadtiedaknotinhermindsothatatoddsandendsoftime,involuntarily,asshewalkedalongtheBromptonRoad,asshebrushedherhair,shefoundherselfpaintingthatpicture,passinghereyeoverit,anduntyingtheknotinimagination.