Миссис Дэллоуэй

           No;notthatman.

           “HowisyoursonatEton?”sheaskedLadyBradshaw.

           Hehadjustmissedhiseleven,saidLadyBradshaw,becauseofthemumps.Hisfathermindedevenmorethanhedid,shethought“being,”shesaid,“nothingbutagreatboyhimself.”

           ClarissalookedatSirWilliam,talkingtoRichard.Hedidnotlooklikeaboy—notintheleastlikeaboy.Shehadoncegonewithsomeonetoaskhisadvice.Hehadbeenperfectlyright;extremelysensible.ButHeavens—whatarelieftogetouttothestreetagain!Therewassomepoorwretchsobbing,sheremembered,inthewaiting-room.Butshedidnotknowwhatitwas—aboutSirWilliam;whatexactlyshedisliked.OnlyRichardagreedwithher,“didn’tlikehistaste,didn’tlikehissmell.”Buthewasextraordinarilyable.TheyweretalkingaboutthisBill.Somecase,SirWilliamwasmentioning,loweringhisvoice.Ithaditsbearinguponwhathewassayingaboutthedeferredeffectsofshellshock.TheremustbesomeprovisionintheBill.

           Sinkinghervoice,drawingMrs.Dallowayintotheshelterofacommonfemininity,acommonprideintheillustriousqualitiesofhusbandsandtheirsadtendencytooverwork,LadyBradshaw(poorgoose—onedidn’tdislikeher)murmuredhow,“justaswewerestarting,myhusbandwascalleduponthetelephone,averysadcase.Ayoungman(thatiswhatSirWilliamistellingMr.Dalloway)hadkilledhimself.Hehadbeeninthearmy.