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“And that’s the end,” she said, and she saw in his eyes, as the interest of the story died away in them, something else take its place; something wondering, pale, like the reflection of a light, which at once made him gaze and marvel. Turning, she looked across the bay, and there, sure enough, coming regularly across the waves first two quick strokes and then one long steady stroke, was the light of the Lighthouse. It had been lit.” — Virginia Woolf
And that’s the end,” she
said, and she saw in his eyes, as
the interest of the story died
away in them, something else
take its place; something
wondering, pale, like the
reflection of a light, which at
once made him gaze and marvel.
Turning, she looked across the
bay, and there, sure enough,
coming regularly across the
waves first two quick strokes
and then one long steady stroke,
was the light of the Lighthouse.
It had been lit.