Миссис Дэллоуэй

           Likeawomanwhohadslippedoffherprintdressandwhiteaprontoarrayherselfinblueandpearls,thedaychanged,putoffstuff,tookgauze,changedtoevening,andwiththesamesighofexhilarationthatawomanbreathes,tumblingpetticoatsonthefloor,ittoosheddust,heat,colour;thetrafficthinned;motorcars,tinkling,darting,succeededthelumberofvans;andhereandthereamongthethickfoliageofthesquaresanintenselighthung.Iresign,theeveningseemedtosay,asitpaledandfadedabovethebattlementsandprominences,moulded,pointed,ofhotel,flat,andblockofshops,Ifade,shewasbeginning,Idisappear,butLondonwouldhavenoneofit,andrushedherbayonetsintothesky,pinionedher,constrainedhertopartnershipinherrevelry.

           ForthegreatrevolutionofMr.Willett’ssummertimehadtakenplacesincePeterWalsh’slastvisittoEngland.Theprolongedeveningwasnewtohim.Itwasinspiriting,rather.Forastheyoungpeoplewentbywiththeirdespatch-boxes,awfullygladtobefree,proudtoo,dumbly,ofsteppingthisfamouspavement,joyofakind,cheap,tinselly,ifyoulike,butallthesamerapture,flushedtheirfaces.Theydressedwelltoo;pinkstockings;prettyshoes.Theywouldnowhavetwohoursatthepictures.Itsharpened,itrefinedthem,theyellow-blueeveninglight;andontheleavesinthesquareshonelurid,livid—theylookedasifdippedinseawater—thefoliageofasubmergedcity.