Миссис Дэллоуэй

           ForMissHelenaParrywasnotdead:MissParrywasalive.Shewaspasteighty.Sheascendedstaircasesslowlywithastick.Shewasplacedinachair(Richardhadseentoit).PeoplewhohadknownBurmainthe‘seventieswerealwaysleduptoher.WherehadPetergotto?Theyusedtobesuchfriends.ForatthementionofIndia,orevenCeylon,hereyes(onlyonewasglass)slowlydeepened,becameblue,beheld,nothumanbeings—shehadnotendermemories,noproudillusionsaboutViceroys,Generals,Mutinies—itwasorchidsshesaw,andmountainpassesandherselfcarriedonthebacksofcooliesinthe‘sixtiesoversolitarypeaks;ordescendingtouprootorchids(startlingblossoms,neverbeheldbefore)whichshepaintedinwater-colour;anindomitableEnglishwoman,fretfulifdisturbedbytheWar,say,whichdroppedabombatherverydoor,fromherdeepmeditationoverorchidsandherownfigurejourneyinginthe‘sixtiesinIndia—butherewasPeter.

           “ComeandtalktoAuntHelenaaboutBurma,”saidClarissa.

           Andyethehadnothadawordwithheralltheevening!

           “Wewilltalklater,”saidClarissa,leadinghimuptoAuntHelena,inherwhiteshawl,withherstick.

           “PeterWalsh,”saidClarissa.

           Thatmeantnothing.

           Clarissahadaskedher.Itwastiring;itwasnoisy;butClarissahadaskedher.Soshehadcome.ItwasapitythattheylivedinLondon—RichardandClarissa.