Миссис Дэллоуэй

           Bowley,whohadroomsintheAlbanyandwassealedwithwaxoverthedeepersourcesoflifebutcouldbeunsealedsuddenly,inappropriately,sentimentally,bythissortofthing—poorwomenwaitingtoseetheQueengopast—poorwomen,nicelittlechildren,orphans,widows,theWar—tut-tut—actuallyhadtearsinhiseyes.AbreezeflauntingeversowarmlydowntheMallthroughthethintrees,pastthebronzeheroes,liftedsomeflagflyingintheBritishbreastofMr.BowleyandheraisedhishatasthecarturnedintotheMallandheldithighasthecarapproached;andletthepoormothersofPimlicopressclosetohim,andstoodveryupright.Thecarcameon.

           SuddenlyMrs.Coateslookedupintothesky.Thesoundofanaeroplaneboredominouslyintotheearsofthecrowd.Thereitwascomingoverthetrees,lettingoutwhitesmokefrombehind,whichcurledandtwisted,actuallywritingsomething!makinglettersinthesky!Everyonelookedup.

           Droppingdeaddowntheaeroplanesoaredstraightup,curvedinaloop,raced,sank,rose,andwhateveritdid,whereveritwent,outflutteredbehinditathickruffledbarofwhitesmokewhichcurledandwreathedupontheskyinletters.Butwhatletters?ACwasit?anE,thenanL?Onlyforamomentdidtheyliestill;thentheymovedandmeltedandwererubbedoutupinthesky,andtheaeroplaneshotfurtherawayandagain,inafreshspaceofsky,beganwritingaK,anE,aYperhaps?

           “Glaxo,”saidMrs.