“Yes, of course, if it’s fine tomorrow,” said Mrs Ramsey. “But you’ll have to be up with the lark.”
“But,” said his father, “it won’t be fine.”
That is to say, the wind blew from the worst possible direction for a landing at the lighthouse.
“Let’s go,” he said, repeating her words, clicking them out, however, with a self-consciousness that made her wince. “Let us goto the circus.” No. He could not say it right. He could not feel it right.
She disliked anything that reminded her that she had been sitting and thinking. So she looked over her shoulder, at the town. The lights were rippling and running as if they were drops of silver water held firm in a wind.
Text from To the Lighthouse by Virginia Woolf