Миссис Дэллоуэй

           “Iaminlove,”hesaid,nottoherhowever,buttosomeoneraisedupinthedarksothatyoucouldnottouchherbutmustlayyourgarlanddownonthegrassinthedark.

           “Inlove,”herepeated,nowspeakingratherdrylytoClarissaDalloway;“inlovewithagirlinIndia.”Hehaddepositedhisgarland.Clarissacouldmakewhatshewouldofit.

           “Inlove!”shesaid.Thatheathisageshouldbesuckedunderinhislittlebow-tiebythatmonster!Andthere’snofleshonhisneck;hishandsarered;andhe’ssixmonthsolderthanIam!hereyeflashedbacktoher;butinherheartshefelt,allthesame,heisinlove.Hehasthat,shefelt;heisinlove.

           Buttheindomitableegotismwhichforeverridesdownthehostsopposedtoit,theriverwhichsayson,on,on;eventhough,itadmits,theremaybenogoalforuswhatever,stillon,on;thisindomitableegotismchargedhercheekswithcolour;madeherlookveryyoung;verypink;verybright-eyedasshesatwithherdressuponherknee,andherneedleheldtotheendofgreensilk,tremblingalittle.Hewasinlove!Notwithher.Withsomeyoungerwoman,ofcourse.

           “Andwhoisshe?”sheasked.

           Nowthisstatuemustbebroughtfromitsheightandsetdownbetweenthem.

           “Amarriedwoman,unfortunately,”hesaid;“thewifeofaMajorintheIndianArmy.