Mr Ramsay glared at them. He glared at them without seeming to see them. That did make them both vaguely uncomfortable.

She disliked anything that reminded her that she had been seen sitting thinking.

mixed with something more secret than she had ever spoken or shown in the course of all those days was an agony.

The very stone one kicks with one’s boot will outlast Shakespeare.

wasn’t crying only for that. She was crying for something else. We might all sit down and cry, she felt. But she did not know what for.

love that never attempted to clutch its object; but, like the love which mathematicians bear their symbols, or poets their phrases, was meant to be spread over the world and become part of the human gain.

She could not understand how she had ever felt any emotion or any affection for him. She had a sense of being past everything, through everything, out of everything,

she pitied men always as if they lacked something – women never, as if they had something.

of untruth;