Миссис Дэллоуэй

           Nowthatonewasold,fifty-twotobeprecise(Sallywasfifty-five,inbody,shesaid,butherheartwaslikeagirl’softwenty);nowthatonewasmaturethen,saidPeter,onecouldwatch,onecouldunderstand,andonedidnotlosethepoweroffeeling,hesaid.No,thatistrue,saidSally.Shefeltmoredeeply,morepassionately,everyyear.Itincreased,hesaid,alas,perhaps,butoneshouldbegladofit—itwentonincreasinginhisexperience.TherewassomeoneinIndia.HewouldliketotellSallyabouther.HewouldlikeSallytoknowher.Shewasmarried,hesaid.Shehadtwosmallchildren.TheymustallcometoManchester,saidSally—hemustpromisebeforetheyleft.

           There’sElizabeth,hesaid,shefeelsnothalfwhatwefeel,notyet.But,saidSally,watchingElizabethgotoherfather,onecanseetheyaredevotedtoeachother.ShecouldfeelitbythewayElizabethwenttoherfather.

           Forherfatherhadbeenlookingather,ashestoodtalkingtotheBradshaws,andhehadthoughttohimself,Whoisthatlovelygirl?AndsuddenlyherealisedthatitwashisElizabeth,andhehadnotrecognisedher,shelookedsolovelyinherpinkfrock!ElizabethhadfelthimlookingatherasshetalkedtoWillieTitcomb.Soshewenttohimandtheystoodtogether,nowthatthepartywasalmostover,lookingatthepeoplegoing,andtheroomsgettingemptierandemptier,withthingsscatteredonthefloor