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Chapter 8

           Howcouldanyofthemsay,ButIwon’t,whenhesaid,CometotheLighthouse.Dothis.Fetchmethat.Theblackwingsspread,andthehardbeaktore.Andthennextmoment,therehesatreadinghisbook;andhemightlookuponeneverknewquitereasonably.HemighttalktotheMacalisters.Hemightbepressingasovereignintosomefrozenoldwoman’shandinthestreet,Jamesthought,andhemightbeshoutingoutatsomefisherman’ssports;hemightbewavinghisarmsintheairwithexcitement.Orhemightsitattheheadofthetabledeadsilentfromoneendofdinnertotheother.Yes,thoughtJames,whiletheboatslappedanddawdledthereinthehotsun;therewasawasteofsnowandrockverylonelyandaustere;andtherehehadcometofeel,quiteoftenlately,whenhisfathersaidsomethingordidsomethingwhichsurprisedtheothers,thereweretwopairsoffootprintsonly;hisownandhisfather’s.Theyalonekneweachother.Whatthenwasthisterror,thishatred?Turningbackamongthemanyleaveswhichthepasthadfoldedinhim,peeringintotheheartofthatforestwherelightandshadesochequereachotherthatallshapeisdistorted,andoneblunders,nowwiththesuninone’seyes,nowwithadarkshadow,hesoughtanimagetocoolanddetachandroundoffhisfeelinginaconcreteshape.

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