Миссис Дэллоуэй

           Burgess,agoodsortandnochatterbox,inwhomhehadconfided,thoughtthisabsenceofhisinEngland,ostensiblytoseelawyersmightservetomakeDaisyreconsider,thinkwhatitmeant.Itwasaquestionofherposition,Mrs.Burgesssaid;thesocialbarrier;givingupherchildren.She’dbeawidowwithapastoneofthesedays,dragglingaboutinthesuburbs,ormorelikely,indiscriminate(youknow,shesaid,whatsuchwomengetlike,withtoomuchpaint).ButPeterWalshpooh-poohedallthat.Hedidn’tmeantodieyet.Anyhowshemustsettleforherself;judgeforherself,hethought,paddingabouttheroominhissocks,smoothingouthisdress-shirt,forhemightgotoClarissa’sparty,orhemightgotooneoftheHalls,orhemightsettleinandreadanabsorbingbookwrittenbyamanheusedtoknowatOxford.Andifhedidretire,that’swhathe’ddo—writebooks.HewouldgotoOxfordandpokeaboutintheBodleian.Vainlythedark,adorablyprettygirlrantotheendoftheterrace;vainlywavedherhand;vainlycriedshedidn’tcareastrawwhatpeoplesaid.Therehewas,themanshethoughttheworldof,theperfectgentleman,thefascinating,thedistinguished(andhisagemadenottheleastdifferencetoher),paddingaboutaroominanhotelinBloomsbury,shaving,washing,continuing,ashetookupcans,putdownrazors,topokeaboutintheBodleian,andgetatthetruthaboutoneortwolittlemattersthatinterestedhim.