Миссис Дэллоуэй

           ItisClarissaherself,hethought,withadeepemotion,andanextraordinarilyclear,yetpuzzling,recollectionofher,asifthisbellhadcomeintotheroomyearsago,wheretheysatatsomemomentofgreatintimacy,andhadgonefromonetotheotherandhadleft,likeabeewithhoney,ladenwiththemoment.Butwhatroom?Whatmoment?Andwhyhadhebeensoprofoundlyhappywhentheclockwasstriking?Then,asthesoundofSt.Margaret’slanguished,hethought,Shehasbeenill,andthesoundexpressedlanguorandsuffering.Itwasherheart,heremembered;andthesuddenloudnessofthefinalstroketolledfordeaththatsurprisedinthemidstoflife,Clarissafallingwhereshestood,inherdrawing-room.No!No!hecried.Sheisnotdead!Iamnotold,hecried,andmarchedupWhitehall,asifthererolleddowntohim,vigorous,unending,hisfuture.

           Hewasnotold,orset,ordriedintheleast.Asforcaringwhattheysaidofhim—theDalloways,theWhitbreads,andtheirset,hecarednotastraw—notastraw(thoughitwastruehewouldhave,sometimeorother,toseewhetherRichardcouldn’thelphimtosomejob).Striding,staring,heglaredatthestatueoftheDukeofCambridge.HehadbeensentdownfromOxford—true.HehadbeenaSocialist,insomesenseafailure—true.