Миссис Дэллоуэй

           Hilbery,”saidPeter;butwhowasthat?thatladystandingbythecurtainalltheevening,withoutspeaking?Heknewherface;connectedherwithBourton.Surelysheusedtocutupunderclothesatthelargetableinthewindow?Davidson,wasthathername?

           “Oh,thatisEllieHenderson,”saidSally.Clarissawasreallyveryhardonher.Shewasacousin,verypoor.ClarissaWAShardonpeople.

           Shewasrather,saidPeter.Yet,saidSally,inheremotionalway,witharushofthatenthusiasmwhichPeterusedtoloveherfor,yetdreadedalittlenow,soeffusiveshemightbecome—howgeneroustoherfriendsClarissawas!andwhatararequalityonefoundit,andhowsometimesatnightoronChristmasDay,whenshecountedupherblessings,sheputthatfriendshipfirst.Theywereyoung;thatwasit.Clarissawaspure-hearted;thatwasit.Peterwouldthinkhersentimental.Soshewas.Forshehadcometofeelthatitwastheonlythingworthsaying—whatonefelt.Clevernesswassilly.Onemustsaysimplywhatonefelt.

           “ButIdonotknow,”saidPeterWalsh,“whatIfeel.”

           PoorPeter,thoughtSally.WhydidnotClarissacomeandtalktothem?Thatwaswhathewaslongingfor.Sheknewit.AllthetimehewasthinkingonlyofClarissa,andwasfidgetingwithhisknife.

           Hehadnotfoundlifesimple,Petersaid.HisrelationswithClarissahadnotbeensimple.Ithadspoilthislife,hesaid.