Миссис Дэллоуэй

           Ugly,clumsy,ClarissaDallowayhadlaughedatherforbeingthat;andhadrevivedthefleshlydesires,forshemindedlookingasshedidbesideClarissa.Norcouldshetalkasshedid.Butwhywishtoresembleher?Why?ShedespisedMrs.Dallowayfromthebottomofherheart.Shewasnotserious.Shewasnotgood.Herlifewasatissueofvanityanddeceit.YetDorisKilmanhadbeenovercome.Shehad,asamatteroffact,verynearlyburstintotearswhenClarissaDallowaylaughedather.“Itistheflesh,itistheflesh,”shemuttered(itbeingherhabittotalkaloud)tryingtosubduethisturbulentandpainfulfeelingasshewalkeddownVictoriaStreet.SheprayedtoGod.Shecouldnothelpbeingugly;shecouldnotaffordtobuyprettyclothes.ClarissaDallowayhadlaughed—butshewouldconcentrateherminduponsomethingelseuntilshehadreachedthepillar-box.AtanyrateshehadgotElizabeth.Butshewouldthinkofsomethingelse;shewouldthinkofRussia;untilshereachedthepillar-box.

           Howniceitmustbe,shesaid,inthecountry,struggling,asMr.Whittakerhadtoldher,withthatviolentgrudgeagainsttheworldwhichhadscornedher,sneeredather,castheroff,beginningwiththisindignity—theinflictionofherunlovablebodywhichpeoplecouldnotbeartosee.Doherhairasshemight,herforeheadremainedlikeanegg,bald,white.Noclothessuitedher.Shemightbuyanything.Andforawoman,ofcourse,thatmeantnevermeetingtheoppositesex.Neverwouldshecomefirstwithanyone.