His wife was crying, and he felt nothing; only each time she sobbed in this profound, this silent, this hopeless way, he descended another step into the pit.
She burnt like a dead white star.
She was off like a bird, bullet, or arrow, impelled by what desire, shot by whom, at what directed, who could say?
There were masses of pictures she had not seen; however, Lily Briscoe reflected, perhaps it was better not to see pictures: they only made one hopelessly discontented with one's own work.
The mind which is most capable of receiving impressions is very often the least capable of drawing conclusions.
So that is marriage, Lily thought, a man and a woman looking at a girl throwing a ball.