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- Вирджиния Вульф
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- Стр. 29/72
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And
the
whole
of
the
effort
of
merging
and
flowing
and
creating
rested
on
her
.
Again
she
felt
,
as
a
fact
without
hostility
,
the
sterility
of
men
,
for
if
she
did
not
do
it
nobody
would
do
it
,
and
so
,
giving
herself
a
little
shake
that
one
gives
a
watch
that
has
stopped
,
the
old
familiar
pulse
began
beating
,
as
the
watch
begins
ticking
--
one
,
two
,
three
,
one
,
two
,
three
.
And
so
on
and
so
on
,
she
repeated
,
listening
to
it
,
sheltering
and
fostering
the
still
feeble
pulse
as
one
might
guard
a
weak
flame
with
a
news-paper
.
And
so
then
,
she
concluded
,
addressing
herself
by
bending
silently
in
his
direction
to
William
Bankes
--
poor
man
!
who
had
no
wife
,
and
no
children
and
dined
alone
in
lodgings
except
for
tonight
;
and
in
pity
for
him
,
life
being
now
strong
enough
to
bear
her
on
again
,
she
began
all
this
business
,
as
a
sailor
not
without
weariness
sees
the
wind
fill
his
sail
and
yet
hardly
wants
to
be
off
again
and
thinks
how
,
had
the
ship
sunk
,
he
would
have
whirled
round
and
round
and
found
rest
on
the
floor
of
the
sea
.
"
Did
you
find
your
letters
?
I
told
them
to
put
them
in
the
hall
for
you
,
"
she
said
to
William
Bankes
.
Lily
Briscoe
watched
her
drifting
into
that
strange
no-man
's
land
where
to
follow
people
is
impossible
and
yet
their
going
inflicts
such
a
chill
on
those
who
watch
them
that
they
always
try
at
least
to
follow
them
with
their
eyes
as
one
follows
a
fading
ship
until
the
sails
have
sunk
beneath
the
horizon
.
How
old
she
looks
,
how
worn
she
looks
,
Lily
thought
,
and
how
remote
.
Then
when
she
turned
to
William
Bankes
,
smiling
,
it
was
as
if
the
ship
had
turned
and
the
sun
had
struck
its
sails
again
,
and
Lily
thought
with
some
amusement
because
she
was
relieved
,
Why
does
she
pity
him
?
For
that
was
the
impression
she
gave
,
when
she
told
him
that
his
letters
were
in
the
hall
.
Poor
William
Bankes
,
she
seemed
to
be
saying
,
as
if
her
own
weariness
had
been
partly
pitying
people
,
and
the
life
in
her
,
her
resolve
to
live
again
,
had
been
stirred
by
pity
.
And
it
was
not
true
,
Lily
thought
;
it
was
one
of
those
misjudgments
of
hers
that
seemed
to
be
instinctive
and
to
arise
from
some
need
of
her
own
rather
than
of
other
people
's
.
He
is
not
in
the
least
pitiable
.
He
has
his
work
,
Lily
said
to
herself
.
She
remembered
,
all
of
a
sudden
as
if
she
had
found
a
treasure
,
that
she
had
her
work
.
In
a
flash
she
saw
her
picture
,
and
thought
,
Yes
,
I
shall
put
the
tree
further
in
the
middle
;
then
I
shall
avoid
that
awkward
space
.
That
's
what
I
shall
do
.
That
's
what
has
been
puzzling
me
.
She
took
up
the
salt
cellar
and
put
it
down
again
on
a
flower
pattern
in
the
table-cloth
,
so
as
to
remind
herself
to
move
the
tree
.
"
It
's
odd
that
one
scarcely
gets
anything
worth
having
by
post
,
yet
one
always
wants
one
's
letters
,
"
said
Mr.
Bankes
.
What
damned
rot
they
talk
,
thought
Charles
Tansley
,
laying
down
his
spoon
precisely
in
the
middle
of
his
plate
,
which
he
had
swept
clean
,
as
if
,
Lily
thought
(
he
sat
opposite
to
her
with
his
back
to
the
window
precisely
in
the
middle
of
view
)
,
he
were
determined
to
make
sure
of
his
meals
.
Everything
about
him
had
that
meagre
fixity
,
that
bare
unloveliness
.
But
nevertheless
,
the
fact
remained
,
it
was
impossible
to
dislike
any
one
if
one
looked
at
them
.
She
liked
his
eyes
;
they
were
blue
,
deep
set
,
frightening
.
"
Do
you
write
many
letters
,
Mr.
Tansley
?
"
asked
Mrs.
Ramsay
,
pitying
him
too
,
Lily
supposed
;
for
that
was
true
of
Mrs
Ramsay
--
she
pitied
men
always
as
if
they
lacked
something
--
women
never
,
as
if
they
had
something
.
He
wrote
to
his
mother
;
otherwise
he
did
not
suppose
he
wrote
one
letter
a
month
,
said
Mr.
Tansley
,
shortly
.
For
he
was
not
going
to
talk
the
sort
of
rot
these
people
wanted
him
to
talk
.
He
was
not
going
to
be
condescended
to
by
these
silly
women
.
He
had
been
reading
in
his
room
,
and
now
he
came
down
and
it
all
seemed
to
him
silly
,
superficial
,
flimsy
.
Why
did
they
dress
?
He
had
come
down
in
his
ordinary
clothes
.
He
had
not
got
any
dress
clothes
.
"
One
never
gets
anything
worth
having
by
post
"
--
that
was
the
sort
of
thing
they
were
always
saying
.
They
made
men
say
that
sort
of
thing
.
Yes
,
it
was
pretty
well
true
,
he
thought
.
They
never
got
anything
worth
having
from
one
year
's
end
to
another
.
They
did
nothing
but
talk
,
talk
,
talk
,
eat
,
eat
,
eat
.
It
was
the
women
's
fault
.
Women
made
civilisation
impossible
with
all
their
"
charm
,
"
all
their
silliness
.
