Місіс Деллоуей

           InLondontoo,theretheysat,and,halfdreaming,cametoherthroughthebedroomdoor,rainfalling,whisperings,stirringsamongdrycorn,thecaressofthesea,asitseemedtoher,hollowingtheminitsarchedshellandmurmuringtoherlaidonshore,strewnshefelt,likeflyingflowersoversometomb.

           “Heisdead,”shesaid,smilingatthepooroldwomanwhoguardedherwithherhonestlight-blueeyesfixedonthedoor.(Theywouldn’tbringhiminhere,wouldthey?)ButMrs.Filmerpooh-poohed.Ohno,ohno!Theywerecarryinghimawaynow.Oughtshenottobetold?Marriedpeopleoughttobetogether,Mrs.Filmerthought.Buttheymustdoasthedoctorsaid.

           “Lethersleep,”saidDr.Holmes,feelingherpulse.Shesawthelargeoutlineofhisbodystandingdarkagainstthewindow.SothatwasDr.Holmes.

           Oneofthetriumphsofcivilisation,PeterWalshthought.Itisoneofthetriumphsofcivilisation,asthelighthighbelloftheambulancesounded.Swiftly,cleanlytheambulancespedtothehospital,havingpickedupinstantly,humanely,somepoordevil;someonehitonthehead,struckdownbydisease,knockedoverperhapsaminuteorsoagoatoneofthesecrossings,asmighthappentooneself.Thatwascivilisation.ItstruckhimcomingbackfromtheEast—theefficiency,theorganisation,thecommunalspiritofLondon.Everycartorcarriageofitsownaccorddrewasidetolettheambulancepass.