Миссис Дэллоуэй

           ForthatmadeSeptimuscryoutabouthumancruelty—howtheyteareachothertopieces.Thefallen,hesaid,theyteartopieces.“Holmesisonus,”hewouldsay,andhewouldinventstoriesaboutHolmes;Holmeseatingporridge;HolmesreadingShakespeare—makinghimselfroarwithlaughterorrage,forDr.Holmesseemedtostandforsomethinghorribletohim.“Humannature,”hecalledhim.Thentherewerethevisions.Hewasdrowned,heusedtosay,andlyingonacliffwiththegullsscreamingoverhim.Hewouldlookovertheedgeofthesofadownintothesea.Orhewashearingmusic.Reallyitwasonlyabarrelorganorsomemancryinginthestreet.But“Lovely!”heusedtocry,andthetearswouldrundownhischeeks,whichwastoherthemostdreadfulthingofall,toseeamanlikeSeptimus,whohadfought,whowasbrave,crying.Andhewouldlielisteninguntilsuddenlyhewouldcrythathewasfallingdown,downintotheflames!Actuallyshewouldlookforflames,itwassovivid.Buttherewasnothing.Theywerealoneintheroom.Itwasadream,shewouldtellhimandsoquiethimatlast,butsometimesshewasfrightenedtoo.Shesighedasshesatsewing.

           Hersighwastenderandenchanting,likethewindoutsideawoodintheevening.Nowsheputdownherscissors;nowsheturnedtotakesomethingfromthetable.Alittlestir,alittlecrinkling,alittletappingbuiltupsomethingonthetablethere,whereshesatsewing.