Миссис Дэллоуэй

           Buthewasnotmad,washe?SirWilliamsaidheneverspokeof“madness”;hecalleditnothavingasenseofproportion.Butherhusbanddidnotlikedoctors.Hewouldrefusetogothere.ShortlyandkindlySirWilliamexplainedtoherthestateofthecase.Hehadthreatenedtokillhimself.Therewasnoalternative.Itwasaquestionoflaw.Hewouldlieinbedinabeautifulhouseinthecountry.Thenurseswereadmirable.SirWilliamwouldvisithimonceaweek.IfMrs.WarrenSmithwasquitesureshehadnomorequestionstoask—heneverhurriedhispatients—theywouldreturntoherhusband.Shehadnothingmoretoask—notofSirWilliam.

           Sotheyreturnedtothemostexaltedofmankind;thecriminalwhofacedhisjudges;thevictimexposedontheheights;thefugitive;thedrownedsailor;thepoetoftheimmortalode;theLordwhohadgonefromlifetodeath;toSeptimusWarrenSmith,whosatinthearm-chairundertheskylightstaringataphotographofLadyBradshawinCourtdress,mutteringmessagesaboutbeauty.

           “Wehavehadourlittletalk,”saidSirWilliam.

           “Hesaysyouarevery,veryill,”Reziacried.

           “Wehavebeenarrangingthatyoushouldgointoahome,”saidSirWilliam.

           “OneofHolmes’shomes?”sneeredSeptimus.

           Thefellowmadeadistastefulimpression.