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- Стр. 11/72
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Knitting
her
reddish-brown
hairy
stocking
,
with
her
head
outlined
absurdly
by
the
gilt
frame
,
the
green
shawl
which
she
had
tossed
over
the
edge
of
the
frame
,
and
the
authenticated
masterpiece
by
Michael
Angelo
,
Mrs.
Ramsay
smoothed
out
what
had
been
harsh
in
her
manner
a
moment
before
,
raised
his
head
,
and
kissed
her
little
boy
on
the
forehead
.
"
Let
us
find
another
picture
to
cut
out
,
"
she
said
.
But
what
had
happened
?
Some
one
had
blundered
.
Starting
from
her
musing
she
gave
meaning
to
words
which
she
had
held
meaningless
in
her
mind
for
a
long
stretch
of
time
.
"
Some
one
had
blundered
"
--
Fixing
her
short-sighted
eyes
upon
her
husband
,
who
was
now
bearing
down
upon
her
,
she
gazed
steadily
until
his
closeness
revealed
to
her
(
the
jingle
mated
itself
in
her
head
)
that
something
had
happened
,
some
one
had
blundered
.
But
she
could
not
for
the
life
of
her
think
what
.
He
shivered
;
he
quivered
.
All
his
vanity
,
all
his
satisfaction
in
his
own
splendour
,
riding
fell
as
a
thunderbolt
,
fierce
as
a
hawk
at
the
head
of
his
men
through
the
valley
of
death
,
had
been
shattered
,
destroyed
.
Stormed
at
by
shot
and
shell
,
boldly
we
rode
and
well
,
flashed
through
the
valley
of
death
,
volleyed
and
thundered
--
straight
into
Lily
Briscoe
and
William
Bankes
.
He
quivered
;
he
shivered
.
Not
for
the
world
would
she
have
spoken
to
him
,
realising
,
from
the
familiar
signs
,
his
eyes
averted
,
and
some
curious
gathering
together
of
his
person
,
as
if
he
wrapped
himself
about
and
needed
privacy
into
which
to
regain
his
equilibrium
,
that
he
was
outraged
and
anguished
.
She
stroked
James
's
head
;
she
transferred
to
him
what
she
felt
for
her
husband
,
and
,
as
she
watched
him
chalk
yellow
the
white
dress
shirt
of
a
gentleman
in
the
Army
and
Navy
Stores
catalogue
,
thought
what
a
delight
it
would
be
to
her
should
he
turn
out
a
great
artist
;
and
why
should
he
not
?
He
had
a
splendid
forehead
.
Then
,
looking
up
,
as
her
husband
passed
her
once
more
,
she
was
relieved
to
find
that
the
ruin
was
veiled
;
domesticity
triumphed
;
custom
crooned
its
soothing
rhythm
,
so
that
when
stopping
deliberately
,
as
his
turn
came
round
again
,
at
the
window
he
bent
quizzically
and
whimsically
to
tickle
James
's
bare
calf
with
a
sprig
of
something
,
she
twitted
him
for
having
dispatched
"
that
poor
young
man
,
"
Charles
Tansley
.
Tansley
had
had
to
go
in
and
write
his
dissertation
,
he
said
.
"
James
will
have
to
write
HIS
dissertation
one
of
these
days
,
"
he
added
ironically
,
flicking
his
sprig
.
Hating
his
father
,
James
brushed
away
the
tickling
spray
with
which
in
a
manner
peculiar
to
him
,
compound
of
severity
and
humour
,
he
teased
his
youngest
son
's
bare
leg
.
She
was
trying
to
get
these
tiresome
stockings
finished
to
send
to
Sorley
's
little
boy
tomorrow
,
said
Mrs.
Ramsay
.
