Virginia Woolf
Virginia Woolf
Virginia Woolf
Virginia Woolf
Virginia Woolf
Virginia Woolf
Virginia Woolf
Virginia Woolf
Virginia Woolf
Virginia Woolf
Virginia Woolf
Virginia Woolf
Virginia Woolf
Virginia Woolf
Virginia Woolf
Virginia Woolf
Virginia Woolf
Virginia Woolf
Virginia Woolf
Virginia Woolf
Virginia Woolf
Virginia Woolf
Virginia Woolf
Virginia Woolf
Virginia Woolf
Virginia Woolf
Virginia Woolf
Virginia Woolf
Virginia Woolf
Virginia Woolf
Virginia Woolf
Virginia Woolf
Virginia Woolf
Virginia Woolf
Virginia Woolf
Virginia Woolf
Virginia Woolf
Virginia Woolf
Virginia Woolf
Virginia Woolf
Virginia Woolf
Virginia Woolf
[The sea without a stain on it, thought Lily Briscoe, still standing and looking out over the bay. The sea stretched like silk across the bay. Distance had an extraordinary power; they had been swallowed up in it, she felt, they were gone for ever, they had become part of the nature of things. It was so calm; it was so quiet. The steamer itself had vanished, but the great scroll of smoke still hung in the air and drooped like a flag mournfully in valediction.]