Місіс Деллоуей

           Ill-dressing,over-dressingshestigmatised,notsavagely,ratherwithimpatientmovementsofthehands,likethoseofapainterwhoputsfromhimsomeobviouswell-meantglaringimposture;andthen,generously,butalwayscritically,shewouldwelcomeashopgirlwhohadturnedherlittlebitofstuffgallantly,orpraise,wholly,withenthusiasticandprofessionalunderstanding,aFrenchladydescendingfromhercarriage,inchinchilla,robes,pearls.

           “Beautiful!”shewouldmurmur,nudgingSeptimus,thathemightsee.Butbeautywasbehindapaneofglass.Eventaste(Rezialikedices,chocolates,sweetthings)hadnorelishtohim.Heputdownhiscuponthelittlemarbletable.Helookedatpeopleoutside;happytheyseemed,collectinginthemiddleofthestreet,shouting,laughing,squabblingovernothing.Buthecouldnottaste,hecouldnotfeel.Inthetea-shopamongthetablesandthechatteringwaiterstheappallingfearcameoverhim—hecouldnotfeel.Hecouldreason;hecouldread,Danteforexample,quiteeasily(“Septimus,doputdownyourbook,”saidRezia,gentlyshuttingtheInferno),hecouldadduphisbill;hisbrainwasperfect;itmustbethefaultoftheworldthen—thathecouldnotfeel.

           “TheEnglisharesosilent,”Reziasaid.Shelikedit,shesaid.SherespectedtheseEnglishmen,andwantedtoseeLondon,andtheEnglishhorses,andthetailor-madesuits,andcouldrememberhearinghowwonderfultheshopswere,fromanAuntwhohadmarriedandlivedinSoho.