Миссис Дэллоуэй

           ”Oh!thoughtClarissa,inthemiddleofmyparty,here’sdeath,shethought.

           Shewenton,intothelittleroomwherethePrimeMinisterhadgonewithLadyBruton.Perhapstherewassomebodythere.Buttherewasnobody.ThechairsstillkepttheimpressofthePrimeMinisterandLadyBruton,sheturneddeferentially,hesittingfour-square,authoritatively.TheyhadbeentalkingaboutIndia.Therewasnobody.Theparty’ssplendourfelltothefloor,sostrangeitwastocomeinaloneinherfinery.

           WhatbusinesshadtheBradshawstotalkofdeathatherparty?Ayoungmanhadkilledhimself.Andtheytalkedofitatherparty—theBradshaws,talkedofdeath.Hehadkilledhimself—buthow?Alwaysherbodywentthroughitfirst,whenshewastold,suddenly,ofanaccident;herdressflamed,herbodyburnt.Hehadthrownhimselffromawindow.Uphadflashedtheground;throughhim,blundering,bruising,wenttherustyspikes.Therehelaywithathud,thud,thudinhisbrain,andthenasuffocationofblackness.Soshesawit.Butwhyhadhedoneit?AndtheBradshawstalkedofitatherparty!

           ShehadoncethrownashillingintotheSerpentine,neveranythingmore.Buthehadflungitaway.Theywentonliving(shewouldhavetogoback;theroomswerestillcrowded;peoplekeptoncoming).They(alldayshehadbeenthinkingofBourton,ofPeter,ofSally),theywouldgrowold.