Ah, said Mrs Bast, theyd find it changed. The
saucepan hadrusted and the mat decayed.
Ah, said Mrs Bast, theyd find it changed. It was
left like a shellon a sandhill to fill with dry salt grains now that life had left
it.
Butthere was only kind Mrs Beckwith turning over
her sketches under thelamp. It had wavered over the walls like a spot of sunlight
andvanished. She stooped, sheturned; she took up this rag; she squeezed that
tube.
They were made of the finestleather in the world,
also. Then he said hehad a particular reason for wanting to go to the
Lighthouse.
They came with their brooms and pails at last;
theygot to work.
She rejected one brush; she choseanother. She hoped
it would be calm enough for them to land at theLighthouse, she said.
Idly,aimlessly, the swaying shawl swung to and fro.
Yes, she could see Mrs Ramsay as she came up the drive withthe washing.
What does one send to the Lighthouse indeed! Ah,
said Mrs Bast, theyd find it changed. It was too much for one woman, too much, too
much.
She rejected one brush; she choseanother. It was
too much for one woman, too much, too much.
Boots are among the chief curses ofmankind, he
said. But what does one send to the Lighthouse?
It was left like a shellon a sandhill to fill with
dry salt grains now that life had left it. He made it impossible for her to
doanything.
What power could now prevent the fertility, the
insensibility ofnature?