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- Вирджиния Вульф
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- Стр. 6/72
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Falling
in
one
second
from
the
tension
which
had
gripped
her
to
the
other
extreme
which
,
as
if
to
recoup
her
for
her
unnecessary
expense
of
emotion
,
was
cool
,
amused
,
and
even
faintly
malicious
,
she
concluded
that
poor
Charles
Tansley
had
been
shed
.
That
was
of
little
account
to
her
.
If
her
husband
required
sacrifices
(
and
indeed
he
did
)
she
cheerfully
offered
up
to
him
Charles
Tansley
,
who
had
snubbed
her
little
boy
.
One
moment
more
,
with
her
head
raised
,
she
listened
,
as
if
she
waited
for
some
habitual
sound
,
some
regular
mechanical
sound
;
and
then
,
hearing
something
rhythmical
,
half
said
,
half
chanted
,
beginning
in
the
garden
,
as
her
husband
beat
up
and
down
the
terrace
,
something
between
a
croak
and
a
song
,
she
was
soothed
once
more
,
assured
again
that
all
was
well
,
and
looking
down
at
the
book
on
her
knee
found
the
picture
of
a
pocket
knife
with
six
blades
which
could
only
be
cut
out
if
James
was
very
careful
.
Suddenly
a
loud
cry
,
as
of
a
sleep-walker
,
half
roused
,
something
about
Stormed
at
with
shot
and
shell
sung
out
with
the
utmost
intensity
in
her
ear
,
made
her
turn
apprehensively
to
see
if
anyone
had
heard
him
.
Only
Lily
Briscoe
,
she
was
glad
to
find
;
and
that
did
not
matter
.
But
the
sight
of
the
girl
standing
on
the
edge
of
the
lawn
painting
reminded
her
;
she
was
supposed
to
be
keeping
her
head
as
much
in
the
same
position
as
possible
for
Lily
's
picture
.
Lily
's
picture
!
Mrs.
Ramsay
smiled
With
her
little
Chinese
eyes
and
her
puckered-up
face
,
she
would
never
marry
;
one
could
not
take
her
painting
very
seriously
;
she
was
an
independent
little
creature
,
and
Mrs.
Ramsay
liked
her
for
it
;
so
,
remembering
her
promise
,
she
bent
her
head
.
Indeed
,
he
almost
knocked
her
easel
over
,
coming
down
upon
her
with
his
hands
waving
shouting
out
,
"
Boldly
we
rode
and
well
,
"
but
,
mercifully
,
he
turned
sharp
,
and
rode
off
,
to
die
gloriously
she
supposed
upon
the
heights
of
Balaclava
.
Never
was
anybody
at
once
so
ridiculous
and
so
alarming
.
But
so
long
as
he
kept
like
that
,
waving
,
shouting
,
she
was
safe
;
he
would
not
stand
still
and
look
at
her
picture
.
And
that
was
what
Lily
Briscoe
could
not
have
endured
.
Even
while
she
looked
at
the
mass
,
at
the
line
,
at
the
colour
,
at
Mrs.
Ramsay
sitting
in
the
window
with
James
,
she
kept
a
feeler
on
her
surroundings
lest
some
one
should
creep
up
,
and
suddenly
she
should
find
her
picture
looked
at
.
But
now
,
with
all
her
senses
quickened
as
they
were
,
looking
,
straining
,
till
the
colour
of
the
wall
and
the
jacmanna
beyond
burnt
into
her
eyes
,
she
was
aware
of
someone
coming
out
of
the
house
,
coming
towards
her
;
but
somehow
divined
,
from
the
footfall
,
William
Bankes
,
so
that
though
her
brush
quivered
,
she
did
not
,
as
she
would
have
done
had
it
been
Mr.
Tansley
,
Paul
Rayley
,
Minta
Doyle
,
or
practically
anybody
else
,
turn
her
canvas
upon
the
grass
,
but
let
it
stand
.
William
Bankes
stood
beside
her
.
They
had
rooms
in
the
village
,
and
so
,
walking
in
,
walking
out
,
parting
late
on
door-mats
,
had
said
little
things
about
the
soup
,
about
the
children
,
about
one
thing
and
another
which
made
them
allies
;
so
that
when
he
stood
beside
her
now
in
his
judicial
way
(
he
was
old
enough
to
be
her
father
too
,
a
botanist
,
a
widower
,
smelling
of
soap
,
very
scrupulous
and
clean
)
she
just
stood
there
.
He
just
stood
there
.
Her
shoes
were
excellent
,
he
observed
.
They
allowed
the
toes
their
natural
expansion
.
Lodging
in
the
same
house
with
her
,
he
had
noticed
too
,
how
orderly
she
was
,
up
before
breakfast
and
off
to
paint
,
he
believed
,
alone
:
poor
,
presumably
,
and
without
the
complexion
or
the
allurement
of
Miss
Doyle
certainly
,
but
with
a
good
sense
which
made
her
in
his
eyes
superior
to
that
young
lady
.
Now
,
for
instance
,
when
Ramsay
bore
down
on
them
,
shouting
,
gesticulating
,
Miss
Briscoe
,
he
felt
certain
,
understood
.
Someone
had
blundered
.
