Миссис Дэллоуэй

           Throughhiseyelasheshecouldseeherblurredoutline;herlittleblackbody;herfaceandhands;herturningmovementsatthetable,asshetookupareel,orlooked(shewasapttolosethings)forhersilk.ShewasmakingahatforMrs.Filmer’smarrieddaughter,whosenamewas—hehadforgottenhername.

           “WhatisthenameofMrs.Filmer’smarrieddaughter?”heasked.

           “Mrs.Peters,”saidRezia.Shewasafraiditwastoosmall,shesaid,holdingitbeforeher.Mrs.Peterswasabigwoman;butshedidnotlikeher.ItwasonlybecauseMrs.Filmerhadbeensogoodtothem.“Shegavemegrapesthismorning,”shesaid—thatReziawantedtodosomethingtoshowthattheyweregrateful.ShehadcomeintotheroomtheothereveningandfoundMrs.Peters,whothoughttheywereout,playingthegramophone.

           “Wasittrue?”heasked.Shewasplayingthegramophone?Yes;shehadtoldhimaboutitatthetime;shehadfoundMrs.Petersplayingthegramophone.

           Hebegan,verycautiously,toopenhiseyes,toseewhetheragramophonewasreallythere.Butrealthings—realthingsweretooexciting.Hemustbecautious.Hewouldnotgomad.Firsthelookedatthefashionpapersonthelowershelf,then,graduallyatthegramophonewiththegreentrumpet.Nothingcouldbemoreexact.Andso,gatheringcourage,helookedatthesideboard;theplateofbananas;theengravingofQueenVictoriaandthePrinceConsort;atthemantelpiece,withthejarofroses.Noneofthesethingsmoved.