Миссис Дэллоуэй

           TheWarwasover,exceptforsomeonelikeMrs.FoxcroftattheEmbassylastnighteatingherheartoutbecausethatniceboywaskilledandnowtheoldManorHousemustgotoacousin;orLadyBexboroughwhoopenedabazaar,theysaid,withthetelegraminherhand,John,herfavourite,killed;butitwasover;thankHeaven—over.ItwasJune.TheKingandQueenwereatthePalace.Andeverywhere,thoughitwasstillsoearly,therewasabeating,astirringofgallopingponies,tappingofcricketbats;Lords,Ascot,Ranelaghandalltherestofit;wrappedinthesoftmeshofthegrey-bluemorningair,which,asthedayworeon,wouldunwindthem,andsetdownontheirlawnsandpitchesthebouncingponies,whoseforefeetjuststruckthegroundanduptheysprung,thewhirlingyoungmen,andlaughinggirlsintheirtransparentmuslinswho,evennow,afterdancingallnight,weretakingtheirabsurdwoollydogsforarun;andevennow,atthishour,discreetolddowagerswereshootingoutintheirmotorcarsonerrandsofmystery;andtheshopkeeperswerefidgetingintheirwindowswiththeirpasteanddiamonds,theirlovelyoldsea-greenbroochesineighteenth-centurysettingstotemptAmericans(butonemusteconomise,notbuythingsrashlyforElizabeth),andshe,too,lovingitasshedidwithanabsurdandfaithfulpassion,beingpartofit,sinceherpeoplewerecourtiersonceinthetimeoftheGeorges,she,too,wasgoingthatverynighttokindleandilluminate;togiveherparty.