Місіс Деллоуей

           Whenshesewed,hethought,shemadeasoundlikeakettleonthehob;bubbling,murmuring,alwaysbusy,herstronglittlepointedfingerspinchingandpoking;herneedleflashingstraight.Thesunmightgoinandout,onthetassels,onthewall-paper,buthewouldwait,hethought,stretchingouthisfeet,lookingathisringedsockattheendofthesofa;hewouldwaitinthiswarmplace,thispocketofstillair,whichonecomesonattheedgeofawoodsometimesintheevening,when,becauseofafallintheground,orsomearrangementofthetrees(onemustbescientificaboveall,scientific),warmthlingers,andtheairbuffetsthecheeklikethewingofabird.

           “Thereitis,”saidRezia,twirlingMrs.Peters’hatonthetipsofherfingers.“That’lldoforthemoment.Later...”hersentencebubbledawaydrip,drip,drip,likeacontentedtapleftrunning.

           Itwaswonderful.Neverhadhedoneanythingwhichmadehimfeelsoproud.Itwassoreal,itwassosubstantial,Mrs.Peters’hat.

           “Justlookatit,”hesaid.

           Yes,itwouldalwaysmakeherhappytoseethathat.Hehadbecomehimselfthen,hehadlaughedthen.Theyhadbeenalonetogether.Alwaysshewouldlikethathat.

           Hetoldhertotryiton.

           “ButImustlooksoqueer!”shecried,runningovertotheglassandlookingfirstthissidethenthat.Thenshesnatcheditoffagain,fortherewasatapatthedoor.