Місіс Деллоуей

           Thefeetofthosepeoplebusyabouttheiractivities,handsputtingstonetostone,mindseternallyoccupiednotwithtrivialchatterings(comparingwomentopoplars—whichwasratherexciting,ofcourse,butverysilly),butwiththoughtsofships,ofbusiness,oflaw,ofadministration,andwithitallsostately(shewasintheTemple),gay(therewastheriver),pious(therewastheChurch),madeherquitedetermined,whateverhermothermightsay,tobecomeeitherafarmeroradoctor.Butshewas,ofcourse,ratherlazy.

           Anditwasmuchbettertosaynothingaboutit.Itseemedsosilly.Itwasthesortofthingthatdidsometimeshappen,whenonewasalone—buildingswithoutarchitects’names,crowdsofpeoplecomingbackfromthecityhavingmorepowerthansingleclergymeninKensington,thananyofthebooksMissKilmanhadlenther,tostimulatewhatlayslumbrous,clumsy,andshyonthemind’ssandyfloortobreaksurface,asachildsuddenlystretchesitsarms;itwasjustthat,perhaps,asigh,astretchofthearms,animpulse,arevelation,whichhasitseffectsforever,andthendownagainitwenttothesandyfloor.Shemustgohome.Shemustdressfordinner.Butwhatwasthetime?—wherewasaclock?

           ShelookedupFleetStreet.ShewalkedjustalittlewaytowardsSt.