Миссис Дэллоуэй

           WhenpeacecamehewasinMilan,billetedinthehouseofaninnkeeperwithacourtyard,flowersintubs,littletablesintheopen,daughtersmakinghats,andtoLucrezia,theyoungerdaughter,hebecameengagedoneeveningwhenthepanicwasonhim—thathecouldnotfeel.

           Fornowthatitwasallover,trucesigned,andthedeadburied,hehad,especiallyintheevening,thesesuddenthunder-clapsoffear.Hecouldnotfeel.AsheopenedthedooroftheroomwheretheItaliangirlssatmakinghats,hecouldseethem;couldhearthem;theywererubbingwiresamongcolouredbeadsinsaucers;theywereturningbuckramshapesthiswayandthat;thetablewasallstrewnwithfeathers,spangles,silks,ribbons;scissorswererappingonthetable;butsomethingfailedhim;hecouldnotfeel.Still,scissorsrapping,girlslaughing,hatsbeingmadeprotectedhim;hewasassuredofsafety;hehadarefuge.Buthecouldnotsitthereallnight.Thereweremomentsofwakingintheearlymorning.Thebedwasfalling;hewasfalling.Ohforthescissorsandthelamplightandthebuckramshapes!HeaskedLucreziatomarryhim,theyoungerofthetwo,thegay,thefrivolous,withthoselittleartist’sfingersthatshewouldholdupandsay“Itisallinthem.”Silk,feathers,whatnotwerealivetothem.

           “Itisthehatthatmattersmost,”shewouldsay,whentheywalkedouttogether.Everyhatthatpassed,shewouldexamine;andthecloakandthedressandthewaythewomanheldherself.