Миссис Дэллоуэй

           Hewasalone,exposedonthisbleakeminence,stretchedout—butnotonahill-top;notonacrag;onMrs.Filmer’ssitting-roomsofa.Asforthevisions,thefaces,thevoicesofthedead,wherewerethey?Therewasascreeninfrontofhim,withblackbulrushesandblueswallows.Wherehehadonceseenmountains,wherehehadseenfaces,wherehehadseenbeauty,therewasascreen.

           “Evans!”hecried.Therewasnoanswer.Amousehadsqueaked,oracurtainrustled.Thosewerethevoicesofthedead.Thescreen,thecoalscuttle,thesideboardremainedtohim.Lethimthenfacethescreen,thecoal-scuttleandthesideboard...butReziaburstintotheroomchattering.

           Someletterhadcome.Everybody’splanswerechanged.Mrs.FilmerwouldnotbeabletogotoBrightonafterall.TherewasnotimetoletMrs.Williamsknow,andreallyReziathoughtitvery,veryannoying,whenshecaughtsightofthehatandthought...perhaps...she...mightjustmakealittle....Hervoicediedoutincontentedmelody.

           “Ah,damn!”shecried(itwasajokeoftheirs,herswearing),theneedlehadbroken.Hat,child,Brighton,needle.Shebuiltitup;firstonething,thenanother,shebuiltitup,sewing.

           Shewantedhimtosaywhetherbymovingtheroseshehadimprovedthehat.Shesatontheendofthesofa.

           Theywereperfectlyhappynow,shesaid,suddenly,puttingthehatdown.Forshecouldsayanythingtohimnow.Shecouldsaywhatevercameintoherhead.