And that’s the end,” shesaid, and she saw in his eyes, asthe interest of the story diedaway in them, something elsetake its place; somethingwondering, pale, like thereflection of a light, which atonce made him gaze and marvel.Turning, she looked across thebay, and there, sure enough,coming regularly across thewaves first two quick strokesand then one long steady stroke,was the light of the Lighthouse.It had been lit.
-Virginia Woolf
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