Миссис Дэллоуэй

           “Whatareyousaying,Septimus?”Reziaasked,wildwithterror,forhewastalkingtohimself.

           ShesentAgnesrunningforDr.Holmes.Herhusband,shesaid,wasmad.Hescarcelyknewher.

           “Youbrute!Youbrute!”criedSeptimus,seeinghumannature,thatisDr.Holmes,entertheroom.

           “Nowwhat’sallthisabout?”saidDr.Holmesinthemostamiablewayintheworld.“Talkingnonsensetofrightenyourwife?”Buthewouldgivehimsomethingtomakehimsleep.Andiftheywererichpeople,saidDr.Holmes,lookingironicallyroundtheroom,byallmeansletthemgotoHarleyStreet;iftheyhadnoconfidenceinhim,saidDr.Holmes,lookingnotquitesokind.

           Itwaspreciselytwelveo’clock;twelvebyBigBen;whosestrokewaswaftedoverthenorthernpartofLondon;blentwiththatofotherclocks,mixedinathinetherealwaywiththecloudsandwispsofsmoke,anddiedupthereamongtheseagulls—twelveo’clockstruckasClarissaDallowaylaidhergreendressonherbed,andtheWarrenSmithswalkeddownHarleyStreet.Twelvewasthehouroftheirappointment.Probably,Reziathought,thatwasSirWilliamBradshaw’shousewiththegreymotorcarinfrontofit.Theleadencirclesdissolvedintheair.