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Chapter 11

           Mercifullyoneneednotsay,verybriskly,crossingthelawntogreetoldMrs.Beckwith,whowouldbecomingouttofindacornertositin,"Oh,good-morning,Mrs.Beckwith!Whatalovelyday!Areyougoingtobesoboldastositinthesun?Jasper’shiddenthechairs.Doletmefindyouone!"andalltherestoftheusualchatter.Oneneednotspeakatall.Oneglided,oneshookone’ssails(therewasagooddealofmovementinthebay,boatswerestartingoff)betweenthings,beyondthings.Emptyitwasnot,butfulltothebrim.Sheseemedtobestandinguptothelipsinsomesubstance,tomoveandfloatandsinkinit,yes,forthesewaterswereunfathomablydeep.Intothemhadspilledsomanylives.TheRamsays’;thechildren’s;andallsortsofwaifsandstraysofthingsbesides.Awasher-womanwithherbasket;arook,ared-hotpoker;thepurplesandgrey-greensofflowers:somecommonfeelingwhichheldthewholetogether.

           Itwassomesuchfeelingofcompletenessperhapswhich,tenyearsago,standingalmostwhereshestoodnow,hadmadehersaythatshemustbeinlovewiththeplace.Lovehadathousandshapes.Theremightbeloverswhosegiftitwastochooseouttheelementsofthingsandplacethemtogetherandso,givingthemawholenessnottheirsinlife,makeofsomescene,ormeetingofpeople(allnowgoneandseparate),oneofthoseglobedcompactedthingsoverwhichthoughtlingers,andloveplays.

           HereyesrestedonthebrownspeckofMr.Ramsay’ssailingboat.TheywouldbeattheLighthousebylunchtimeshesupposed.

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