Місіс Деллоуей

           Theworldhasraiseditswhip;wherewillitdescend?

           Everythinghadcometoastandstill.Thethrobofthemotorenginessoundedlikeapulseirregularlydrummingthroughanentirebody.ThesunbecameextraordinarilyhotbecausethemotorcarhadstoppedoutsideMulberry’sshopwindow;oldladiesonthetopsofomnibusesspreadtheirblackparasols;hereagreen,herearedparasolopenedwithalittlepop.Mrs.Dalloway,comingtothewindowwithherarmsfullofsweetpeas,lookedoutwithherlittlepinkfacepursedinenquiry.Everyonelookedatthemotorcar.Septimuslooked.Boysonbicyclessprangoff.Trafficaccumulated.Andtherethemotorcarstood,withdrawnblinds,anduponthemacuriouspatternlikeatree,Septimusthought,andthisgradualdrawingtogetherofeverythingtoonecentrebeforehiseyes,asifsomehorrorhadcomealmosttothesurfaceandwasabouttoburstintoflames,terrifiedhim.Theworldwaveredandquiveredandthreatenedtoburstintoflames.ItisIwhoamblockingtheway,hethought.Washenotbeinglookedatandpointedat;washenotweightedthere,rootedtothepavement,forapurpose?Butforwhatpurpose?

           “Letusgoon,Septimus,”saidhiswife,alittlewoman,withlargeeyesinasallowpointedface;anItaliangirl.

           ButLucreziaherselfcouldnothelplookingatthemotorcarandthetreepatternontheblinds.