TO   THE   LIGHTHOUSE
its lines running up and across, its attempt at
something. It would be hung in the attics, she
thought; it would be destroyed. But what did
that matter? she asked herself, taking up her
brush again. She looked at the steps; they were
empty; she looked at her canvas; it was blurred.
With a sudden intensity, as if she saw it clear for a
second, she drew a line there, in the centre. It
was done; it was finished. Yes,, she thought,
laying down her brush in extreme fatigue, I have
had my vision.