Миссис Дэллоуэй

           Then,justashappensonaterraceinthemoonlight,whenonepersonbeginstofeelashamedthatheisalreadybored,andyetastheothersitssilent,veryquiet,sadlylookingatthemoon,doesnotliketospeak,moveshisfoot,clearshisthroat,noticessomeironscrollonatableleg,stirsaleaf,butsaysnothing—soPeterWalshdidnow.Forwhygobacklikethistothepast?hethought.Whymakehimthinkofitagain?Whymakehimsuffer,whenshehadtorturedhimsoinfernally?Why?

           “Doyourememberthelake?”shesaid,inanabruptvoice,underthepressureofanemotionwhichcaughtherheart,madethemusclesofherthroatstiff,andcontractedherlipsinaspasmasshesaid“lake.”Forshewasachild,throwingbreadtotheducks,betweenherparents,andatthesametimeagrownwomancomingtoherparentswhostoodbythelake,holdingherlifeinherarmswhich,asshenearedthem,grewlargerandlargerinherarms,untilitbecameawholelife,acompletelife,whichsheputdownbythemandsaid,“ThisiswhatIhavemadeofit!This!”Andwhathadshemadeofit?What,indeed?sittingtheresewingthismorningwithPeter.

           ShelookedatPeterWalsh;herlook,passingthroughallthattimeandthatemotion,reachedhimdoubtfully;settledonhimtearfully;androseandflutteredaway,asabirdtouchesabranchandrisesandfluttersaway.Quitesimplyshewipedhereyes.

           “Yes,”saidPeter.