Миссис Дэллоуэй

           Forthefirsttimefordayshewasspeakingasheusedtodo!Ofcourseitwas—absurdlysmall,shesaid.ButMrs.Petershadchosenit.

           Hetookitoutofherhands.Hesaiditwasanorgangrinder’smonkey’shat.

           Howitrejoicedherthat!Notforweekshadtheylaughedlikethistogether,pokingfunprivatelylikemarriedpeople.WhatshemeantwasthatifMrs.Filmerhadcomein,orMrs.PetersoranybodytheywouldnothaveunderstoodwhatsheandSeptimuswerelaughingat.

           “There,”shesaid,pinningarosetoonesideofthehat.Neverhadshefeltsohappy!Neverinherlife!

           Butthatwasstillmoreridiculous,Septimussaid.Nowthepoorwomanlookedlikeapigatafair.(NobodyevermadeherlaughasSeptimusdid.)

           Whathadshegotinherwork-box?Shehadribbonsandbeads,tassels,artificialflowers.Shetumbledthemoutonthetable.Hebeganputtingoddcolourstogether—forthoughhehadnofingers,couldnotevendoupaparcel,hehadawonderfuleye,andoftenhewasright,sometimesabsurd,ofcourse,butsometimeswonderfullyright.

           “Sheshallhaveabeautifulhat!”hemurmured,takingupthisandthat,Reziakneelingbyhisside,lookingoverhisshoulder.Nowitwasfinished—thatistosaythedesign;shemuststitchittogether.Butshemustbevery,verycareful,hesaid,tokeepitjustashehadmadeit.

           Soshesewed.