Місіс Деллоуей

           AteverymomentNaturesignifiedbysomelaughinghintlikethatgoldspotwhichwentroundthewall—there,there,there—herdeterminationtoshow,bybrandishingherplumes,shakinghertresses,flinginghermantlethiswayandthat,beautifully,alwaysbeautifully,andstandingcloseuptobreathethroughherhollowedhandsShakespeare’swords,hermeaning.

           Rezia,sittingatthetabletwistingahatinherhands,watchedhim;sawhimsmiling.Hewashappythen.Butshecouldnotbeartoseehimsmiling.Itwasnotmarriage;itwasnotbeingone’shusbandtolookstrangelikethat,alwaystobestarting,laughing,sittinghourafterhoursilent,orclutchingherandtellinghertowrite.Thetabledrawerwasfullofthosewritings;aboutwar;aboutShakespeare;aboutgreatdiscoveries;howthereisnodeath.Latelyhehadbecomeexcitedsuddenlyfornoreason(andbothDr.HolmesandSirWilliamBradshawsaidexcitementwastheworstthingforhim),andwavedhishandsandcriedoutthatheknewthetruth!Hekneweverything!Thatman,hisfriendwhowaskilled,Evans,hadcome,hesaid.Hewassingingbehindthescreen.Shewroteitdownjustashespokeit.Somethingswereverybeautiful;otherssheernonsense.Andhewasalwaysstoppinginthemiddle,changinghismind;wantingtoaddsomething;hearingsomethingnew;listeningwithhishandup.

           Butsheheardnothing.

           Andoncetheyfoundthegirlwhodidtheroomreadingoneofthesepapersinfitsoflaughter.Itwasadreadfulpity.