Миссис Дэллоуэй

           AndthesuprememysterywhichKilmanmightsayshehadsolved,orPetermightsayhehadsolved,butClarissadidn’tbelieveeitherofthemhadtheghostofanideaofsolving,wassimplythis:herewasoneroom;thereanother.Didreligionsolvethat,orlove?

           Love—butheretheotherclock,theclockwhichalwaysstrucktwominutesafterBigBen,cameshufflinginwithitslapfullofoddsandends,whichitdumpeddownasifBigBenwereallverywellwithhismajestylayingdownthelaw,sosolemn,sojust,butshemustrememberallsortsoflittlethingsbesides—Mrs.Marsham,EllieHenderson,glassesforices—allsortsoflittlethingscamefloodingandlappinganddancinginonthewakeofthatsolemnstrokewhichlayflatlikeabarofgoldonthesea.Mrs.Marsham,EllieHenderson,glassesforices.Shemusttelephonenowatonce.

           Volubly,troublously,thelateclocksounded,cominginonthewakeofBigBen,withitslapfulloftrifles.Beatenup,brokenupbytheassaultofcarriages,thebrutalityofvans,theeageradvanceofmyriadsofangularmen,offlauntingwomen,thedomesandspiresofofficesandhospitals,thelastrelicsofthislapfullofoddsandendsseemedtobreak,likethesprayofanexhaustedwave,uponthebodyofMissKilmanstandingstillinthestreetforamomenttomutter“Itistheflesh.”

           Itwasthefleshthatshemustcontrol.ClarissaDallowayhadinsultedher.Thatsheexpected.Butshehadnottriumphed;shehadnotmasteredtheflesh.