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Chapter 9

           Couldloving,aspeoplecalledit,makeherandMrs.Ramsayone?foritwasnotknowledgebutunitythatshedesired,notinscriptionsontablets,nothingthatcouldbewritteninanylanguageknowntomen,butintimacyitself,whichisknowledge,shehadthought,leaningherheadonMrs.Ramsay’sknee.

           Nothinghappened.Nothing!Nothing!assheleantherheadagainstMrs.Ramsay’sknee.Andyet,sheknewknowledgeandwisdomwerestoredupinMrs.Ramsay’sheart.How,then,shehadaskedherself,didoneknowonethingoranotherthingaboutpeople,sealedastheywere?Onlylikeabee,drawnbysomesweetnessorsharpnessintheairintangibletotouchortaste,onehauntedthedome-shapedhive,rangedthewastesoftheairoverthecountriesoftheworldalone,andthenhauntedthehiveswiththeirmurmursandtheirstirrings;thehives,whichwerepeople.Mrs.Ramsayrose.Lilyrose.Mrs.Ramsaywent.Fordaystherehungabouther,asafteradreamsomesubtlechangeisfeltinthepersononehasdreamtof,morevividlythananythingshesaid,thesoundofmurmuringand,asshesatinthewickerarm-chairinthedrawing-roomwindowshewore,toLily’seyes,anaugustshape;theshapeofadome.

           ThisraypassedlevelwithMr.Bankes’sraystraighttoMrs.RamsaysittingreadingtherewithJamesatherknee.Butnowwhileshestilllooked,Mr.Bankeshaddone.Hehadputonhisspectacles.Hehadsteppedback.Hehadraisedhishand.Hehadslightlynarrowedhisclearblueeyes,whenLily,rousingherself,sawwhathewasat,andwincedlikeadogwhoseesahandraisedtostrikeit.

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