Миссис Дэллоуэй

           ThecurtainwithitsflightofbirdsofParadiseblewoutagain.AndClarissasaw—shesawRalphLyonbeatitback,andgoontalking.Soitwasn’tafailureafterall!itwasgoingtobeallrightnow—herparty.Ithadbegun.Ithadstarted.Butitwasstilltouchandgo.Shemuststandthereforthepresent.Peopleseemedtocomeinarush.

           ColonelandMrs.Garrod...Mr.HughWhitbread...Mr.Bowley...Mrs.Hilbery...LadyMaryMaddox...Mr.Quin...intonedWilkin.Shehadsixorsevenwordswitheach,andtheywenton,theywentintotherooms;intosomethingnow,notnothing,sinceRalphLyonhadbeatbackthecurtain.

           Andyetforherownpart,itwastoomuchofaneffort.Shewasnotenjoyingit.Itwastoomuchlikebeing—justanybody,standingthere;anybodycoulddoit;yetthisanybodyshedidalittleadmire,couldn’thelpfeelingthatshehad,anyhow,madethishappen,thatitmarkedastage,thispostthatshefeltherselftohavebecome,foroddlyenoughshehadquiteforgottenwhatshelookedlike,butfeltherselfastakedriveninatthetopofherstairs.Everytimeshegaveapartyshehadthisfeelingofbeingsomethingnotherself,andthateveryonewasunrealinoneway;muchmorerealinanother.Itwas,shethought,partlytheirclothes,partlybeingtakenoutoftheirordinaryways,partlythebackground,itwaspossibletosaythingsyoucouldn’tsayanyhowelse,thingsthatneededaneffort;possibletogomuchdeeper.Butnotforher;notyetanyhow.