Миссис Дэллоуэй

           Still,hethought,yawningandbeginningtotakenotice—Regent’sParkhadchangedverylittlesincehewasaboy,exceptforthesquirrels—still,presumablytherewerecompensations—whenlittleEliseMitchell,whohadbeenpickinguppebblestoaddtothepebblecollectionwhichsheandherbrotherweremakingonthenurserymantelpiece,plumpedherhandfuldownonthenurse’skneeandscuddedoffagainfulltiltintoalady’slegs.PeterWalshlaughedout.

           ButLucreziaWarrenSmithwassayingtoherself,It’swicked;whyshouldIsuffer?shewasasking,asshewalkeddownthebroadpath.No;Ican’tstanditanylonger,shewassaying,havingleftSeptimus,whowasn’tSeptimusanylonger,tosayhard,cruel,wickedthings,totalktohimself,totalktoadeadman,ontheseatoverthere;whenthechildranfulltiltintoher,fellflat,andburstoutcrying.

           Thatwascomfortingrather.Shestoodherupright,dustedherfrock,kissedher.

           Butforherselfshehaddonenothingwrong;shehadlovedSeptimus;shehadbeenhappy;shehadhadabeautifulhome,andtherehersisterslivedstill,makinghats.