Місіс Деллоуей

           Ohpooroldwretch!

           Supposeitwasawetnight?Supposeone’sfather,orsomebodywhohadknownoneinbetterdayshadhappenedtopass,andsawonestandingthereinthegutter?Andwheredidshesleepatnight?

           Cheerfully,almostgaily,theinvinciblethreadofsoundwoundupintotheairlikethesmokefromacottagechimney,windingupcleanbeechtreesandissuinginatuftofbluesmokeamongthetopmostleaves.“Andifsomeoneshouldsee,whatmatterthey?”

           Sinceshewassounhappy,forweeksandweeksnow,Reziahadgivenmeaningstothingsthathappened,almostfeltsometimesthatshemuststoppeopleinthestreet,iftheylookedgood,kindpeople,justtosaytothem“Iamunhappy”;andthisoldwomansinginginthestreet“ifsomeoneshouldsee,whatmatterthey?”madehersuddenlyquitesurethateverythingwasgoingtoberight.TheyweregoingtoSirWilliamBradshaw;shethoughthisnamesoundednice;hewouldcureSeptimusatonce.Andthentherewasabrewer’scart,andthegreyhorseshaduprightbristlesofstrawintheirtails;therewerenewspaperplacards.Itwasasilly,sillydream,beingunhappy.

           Sotheycrossed,Mr.andMrs.