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Chapter 9

           Shewipedonebrushafteranotheruponapieceofoldrag,menially,onpurpose.Shetookshelterfromthereverencewhichcoveredallwomen;shefeltherselfpraised.Lethimgaze;shewouldstealalookatherpicture.

           Shecouldhavewept.Itwasbad,itwasbad,itwasinfinitelybad!Shecouldhavedoneitdifferentlyofcourse;thecolourcouldhavebeenthinnedandfaded;theshapesetherealised;thatwashowPauncefortewouldhaveseenit.Butthenshedidnotseeitlikethat.Shesawthecolourburningonaframeworkofsteel;thelightofabutterfly’swinglyinguponthearchesofacathedral.Ofallthatonlyafewrandommarksscrawleduponthecanvasremained.Anditwouldneverbeseen;neverbehungeven,andtherewasMr.Tansleywhisperinginherear,"Womencan’tpaint,womencan’twrite..."

           ShenowrememberedwhatshehadbeengoingtosayaboutMrs.Ramsay.Shedidnotknowhowshewouldhaveputit;butitwouldhavebeensomethingcritical.Shehadbeenannoyedtheothernightbysomehighhandedness.LookingalongthelevelofMr.Bankes’sglanceather,shethoughtthatnowomancouldworshipanotherwomaninthewayheworshipped;theycouldonlyseekshelterundertheshadewhichMr.Bankesextendedoverthemboth.Lookingalonghisbeamsheaddedtoitherdifferentray,thinkingthatshewasunquestionablytheloveliestofpeople(bowedoverherbook);thebestperhaps;butalso,differenttoofromtheperfectshapewhichonesawthere.

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