Миссис Дэллоуэй

           Atfifty-threehehadtocomeandaskthemtoputhimintosomesecretary’soffice,tofindhimsomeusher’sjobteachinglittleboysLatin,atthebeckandcallofsomemandarininanoffice,somethingthatbroughtinfivehundredayear;forifhemarriedDaisy,evenwithhispension,theycouldneverdoonless.Whitbreadcoulddoitpresumably;orDalloway.Hedidn’tmindwhatheaskedDalloway.Hewasathoroughgoodsort;abitlimited;abitthickinthehead;yes;butathoroughgoodsort.Whateverhetookuphedidinthesamematter-of-factsensibleway;withoutatouchofimagination,withoutasparkofbrilliancy,butwiththeinexplicablenicenessofhistype.Heoughttohavebeenacountrygentleman—hewaswastedonpolitics.Hewasathisbestoutofdoors,withhorsesanddogs—howgoodhewas,forinstance,whenthatgreatshaggydogofClarissa’sgotcaughtinatrapandhaditspawhalftornoff,andClarissaturnedfaintandDallowaydidthewholething;bandaged,madesplints;toldClarissanottobeafool.Thatwaswhatshelikedhimforperhaps—thatwaswhatsheneeded.“Now,mydear,don’tbeafool.Holdthis—fetchthat,”allthetimetalkingtothedogasifitwereahumanbeing.