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.
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