Миссис Дэллоуэй

           ArlingtonStreetandPiccadillyseemedtochafetheveryairintheParkandliftitsleaveshotly,brilliantly,onwavesofthatdivinevitalitywhichClarissaloved.Todance,toride,shehadadoredallthat.)

           Fortheymightbepartedforhundredsofyears,sheandPeter;sheneverwrotealetterandhisweredrysticks;butsuddenlyitwouldcomeoverher,Ifhewerewithmenowwhatwouldhesay?—somedays,somesightsbringinghimbacktohercalmly,withouttheoldbitterness;whichperhapswastherewardofhavingcaredforpeople;theycamebackinthemiddleofSt.James’sParkonafinemorning—indeedtheydid.ButPeter—howeverbeautifulthedaymightbe,andthetreesandthegrass,andthelittlegirlinpink—Peterneversawathingofallthat.Hewouldputonhisspectacles,ifshetoldhimto;hewouldlook.Itwasthestateoftheworldthatinterestedhim;Wagner,Pope’spoetry,people’scharacterseternally,andthedefectsofherownsoul.Howhescoldedher!Howtheyargued!ShewouldmarryaPrimeMinisterandstandatthetopofastaircase;theperfecthostesshecalledher(shehadcriedoveritinherbedroom),shehadthemakingsoftheperfecthostess,hesaid.

           SoshewouldstillfindherselfarguinginSt.James’sPark,stillmakingoutthatshehadbeenright—andshehadtoo—nottomarryhim.Forinmarriagealittlelicence,alittleindependencetheremustbebetweenpeoplelivingtogetherdayindayoutinthesamehouse;whichRichardgaveher,andshehim.