Миссис Дэллоуэй

           Notthatheblamedherorthiseffigyofamaninatail-coatwithacarnationinhisbuttonholecomingtowardshim.Onlyonepersonintheworldcouldbeashewas,inlove.Andtherehewas,thisfortunateman,himself,reflectedintheplate-glasswindowofamotor-carmanufacturerinVictoriaStreet.AllIndialaybehindhim;plains,mountains;epidemicsofcholera;adistricttwiceasbigasIreland;decisionshehadcometoalone—he,PeterWalsh;whowasnowreallyforthefirsttimeinhislife,inlove.Clarissahadgrownhard,hethought;andatriflesentimentalintothebargain,hesuspected,lookingatthegreatmotor-carscapableofdoing—howmanymilesonhowmanygallons?Forhehadaturnformechanics;hadinventedaploughinhisdistrict,hadorderedwheel-barrowsfromEngland,butthecoolieswouldn’tusethem,allofwhichClarissaknewnothingwhateverabout.

           Thewayshesaid“HereismyElizabeth!”—thatannoyedhim.Whynot“Here’sElizabeth”simply?Itwasinsincere.AndElizabethdidn’tlikeiteither.(Stillthelasttremorsofthegreatboomingvoiceshooktheairroundhim;thehalf-hour;stillearly;onlyhalf-pastelevenstill.)Forheunderstoodyoungpeople;helikedthem.TherewasalwayssomethingcoldinClarissa,hethought.