Миссис Дэллоуэй
Theworldhasraiseditswhip;wherewillitdescend?
Everythinghadcometoastandstill.Thethrobofthemotorenginessoundedlikeapulseirregularlydrummingthroughanentirebody.ThesunbecameextraordinarilyhotbecausethemotorcarhadstoppedoutsideMulberry’sshopwindow;oldladiesonthetopsofomnibusesspreadtheirblackparasols;hereagreen,herearedparasolopenedwithalittlepop.Mrs.Dalloway,comingtothewindowwithherarmsfullofsweetpeas,lookedoutwithherlittlepinkfacepursedinenquiry.Everyonelookedatthemotorcar.Septimuslooked.Boysonbicyclessprangoff.Trafficaccumulated.Andtherethemotorcarstood,withdrawnblinds,anduponthemacuriouspatternlikeatree,Septimusthought,andthisgradualdrawingtogetherofeverythingtoonecentrebeforehiseyes,asifsomehorrorhadcomealmosttothesurfaceandwasabouttoburstintoflames,terrifiedhim.Theworldwaveredandquiveredandthreatenedtoburstintoflames.ItisIwhoamblockingtheway,hethought.Washenotbeinglookedatandpointedat;washenotweightedthere,rootedtothepavement,forapurpose?Butforwhatpurpose?
“Letusgoon,Septimus,”saidhiswife,alittlewoman,withlargeeyesinasallowpointedface;anItaliangirl.
ButLucreziaherselfcouldnothelplookingatthemotorcarandthetreepatternontheblinds.
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