Місіс Деллоуей

           StillrememberinghowonceinsomeprimevalMayshehadwalkedwithherlover,thisrustypump,thisbatteredoldwomanwithonehandexposedforcopperstheotherclutchingherside,wouldstillbethereintenmillionyears,rememberinghowonceshehadwalkedinMay,wheretheseaflowsnow,withwhomitdidnotmatter—hewasaman,ohyes,amanwhohadlovedher.ButthepassageofageshadblurredtheclarityofthatancientMayday;thebrightpetalledflowerswerehoarandsilverfrosted;andshenolongersaw,whensheimploredhim(asshedidnowquiteclearly)“lookinmyeyeswiththysweeteyesintently,”shenolongersawbrowneyes,blackwhiskersorsunburntfacebutonlyaloomingshape,ashadowshape,towhich,withthebird-likefreshnessoftheveryagedshestilltwittered“givemeyourhandandletmepressitgently”(PeterWalshcouldn’thelpgivingthepoorcreatureacoinashesteppedintohistaxi),“andifsomeoneshouldsee,whatmatterthey?”shedemanded;andherfistclutchedatherside,andshesmiled,pocketinghershilling,andallpeeringinquisitiveeyesseemedblottedout,andthepassinggenerations—thepavementwascrowdedwithbustlingmiddle-classpeople—vanished,likeleaves,tobetroddenunder,tobesoakedandsteepedandmademouldofbythateternalspring—

           eeumfahumso

           foosweetooeemoo

           “Pooroldwoman,”saidReziaWarrenSmith,waitingtocross.