Миссис Дэллоуэй

           ButAuntHelenaneverlikeddiscussionofanything(whenSallygaveherWilliamMorris,ithadtobewrappedinbrownpaper).Theretheysat,hourafterhour,talkinginherbedroomatthetopofthehouse,talkingaboutlife,howtheyweretoreformtheworld.Theymeanttofoundasocietytoabolishprivateproperty,andactuallyhadaletterwritten,thoughnotsentout.TheideaswereSally’s,ofcourse—butverysoonshewasjustasexcited—readPlatoinbedbeforebreakfast;readMorris;readShelleybythehour.

           Sally’spowerwasamazing,hergift,herpersonality.Therewasherwaywithflowers,forinstance.AtBourtontheyalwayshadstifflittlevasesallthewaydownthetable.Sallywentout,pickedhollyhocks,dahlias—allsortsofflowersthathadneverbeenseentogether—cuttheirheadsoff,andmadethemswimonthetopofwaterinbowls.Theeffectwasextraordinary—comingintodinnerinthesunset.(OfcourseAuntHelenathoughtitwickedtotreatflowerslikethat.)Thensheforgothersponge,andranalongthepassagenaked.Thatgrimoldhousemaid,EllenAtkins,wentaboutgrumbling—“Supposeanyofthegentlemenhadseen?”Indeedshedidshockpeople.Shewasuntidy,Papasaid.

           Thestrangething,onlookingback,wasthepurity,theintegrity,ofherfeelingforSally.Itwasnotlikeone’sfeelingforaman.Itwascompletelydisinterested,andbesides,ithadaqualitywhichcouldonlyexistbetweenwomen,betweenwomenjustgrownup.