Миссис Дэллоуэй

           AsachildhehadwalkedinRegent’sPark—odd,hethought,howthethoughtofchildhoodkeepscomingbacktome—theresultofseeingClarissa,perhaps;forwomenlivemuchmoreinthepastthanwedo,hethought.Theyattachthemselvestoplaces;andtheirfathers—awoman’salwaysproudofherfather.Bourtonwasaniceplace,averyniceplace,butIcouldnevergetonwiththeoldman,hethought.Therewasquiteasceneonenight—anargumentaboutsomethingorother,what,hecouldnotremember.Politicspresumably.

           Yes,herememberedRegent’sPark;thelongstraightwalk;thelittlehousewhereoneboughtair-ballstotheleft;anabsurdstatuewithaninscriptionsomewhereorother.Helookedforanemptyseat.Hedidnotwanttobebothered(feelingalittledrowsyashedid)bypeopleaskinghimthetime.Anelderlygreynurse,withababyasleepinitsperambulator—thatwasthebesthecoulddoforhimself;sitdownatthefarendoftheseatbythatnurse.

           She’saqueer-lookinggirl,hethought,suddenlyrememberingElizabethasshecameintotheroomandstoodbyhermother.Grownbig;quitegrown-up,notexactlypretty;handsomerather;andshecan’tbemorethaneighteen.Probablyshedoesn’tgetonwithClarissa.“There’smyElizabeth”—thatsortofthing—whynot“Here’sElizabeth”simply?—tryingtomakeout,likemostmothers,thatthingsarewhatthey’renot.Shetruststohercharmtoomuch,hethought.Sheoverdoesit.