Миссис Дэллоуэй

           Andthen,openinghereyes,howfreshlikefrilledlinencleanfromalaundrylaidinwickertraystheroseslooked;anddarkandprimtheredcarnations,holdingtheirheadsup;andallthesweetpeasspreadingintheirbowls,tingedviolet,snowwhite,pale—asifitweretheeveningandgirlsinmuslinfrockscameouttopicksweetpeasandrosesafterthesuperbsummer’sday,withitsalmostblue-blacksky,itsdelphiniums,itscarnations,itsarumlilieswasover;anditwasthemomentbetweensixandsevenwheneveryflower—roses,carnations,irises,lilac—glows;white,violet,red,deeporange;everyflowerseemstoburnbyitself,softly,purelyinthemistybeds;andhowshelovedthegrey-whitemothsspinninginandout,overthecherrypie,overtheeveningprimroses!

           AndasshebegantogowithMissPymfromjartojar,choosing,nonsense,nonsense,shesaidtoherself,moreandmoregently,asifthisbeauty,thisscent,thiscolour,andMissPymlikingher,trustingher,wereawavewhichsheletflowoverherandsurmountthathatred,thatmonster,surmountitall;anditliftedherupandupwhen—oh!apistolshotinthestreetoutside!

           “Dear,thosemotorcars,”saidMissPym,goingtothewindowtolook,andcomingbackandsmilingapologeticallywithherhandsfullofsweetpeas,asifthosemotorcars,thosetyresofmotorcars,wereallHERfault.

           TheviolentexplosionwhichmadeMrs.