Миссис Дэллоуэй

           ”

           “Lord,Lord!”hesaidtohimselfoutloud,stretchingandopeninghiseyes.“Thedeathofthesoul.”Thewordsattachedthemselvestosomescene,tosomeroom,tosomepasthehadbeendreamingof.Itbecameclearer;thescene,theroom,thepasthehadbeendreamingof.

           ItwasatBourtonthatsummer,earlyinthe‘nineties,whenhewassopassionatelyinlovewithClarissa.Therewereagreatmanypeoplethere,laughingandtalking,sittingroundatableafterteaandtheroomwasbathedinyellowlightandfullofcigarettesmoke.Theyweretalkingaboutamanwhohadmarriedhishousemaid,oneoftheneighbouringsquires,hehadforgottenhisname.Hehadmarriedhishousemaid,andshehadbeenbroughttoBourtontocall—anawfulvisitithadbeen.Shewasabsurdlyover-dressed,“likeacockatoo,”Clarissahadsaid,imitatingher,andsheneverstoppedtalking.Onandonshewent,onandon.Clarissaimitatedher.Thensomebodysaid—SallySetonitwas—diditmakeanyrealdifferencetoone’sfeelingstoknowthatbeforethey’dmarriedshehadhadababy?(Inthosedays,inmixedcompany,itwasaboldthingtosay.)HecouldseeClarissanow,turningbrightpink;somehowcontracting;andsaying,“Oh,Ishallneverbeabletospeaktoheragain!”Whereuponthewholepartysittingroundthetea-tableseemedtowobble.Itwasveryuncomfortable.