Місіс Деллоуей

           Perhapsitwasmorbid;orwasitnottouchingrather,therespectwhichtheyshowedthisambulancewithitsvictiminside—busymenhurryinghomeyetinstantlybethinkingthemasitpassedofsomewife;orpresumablyhoweasilyitmighthavebeenthemthere,stretchedonashelfwithadoctorandanurse....Ah,butthinkingbecamemorbid,sentimental,directlyonebeganconjuringupdoctors,deadbodies;alittleglowofpleasure,asortoflusttoooverthevisualimpressionwarnedonenottogoonwiththatsortofthinganymore—fataltoart,fataltofriendship.True.Andyet,thoughtPeterWalsh,astheambulanceturnedthecornerthoughthelighthighbellcouldbehearddownthenextstreetandstillfartherasitcrossedtheTottenhamCourtRoad,chimingconstantly,itistheprivilegeofloneliness;inprivacyonemaydoasonechooses.Onemightweepifnoonesaw.Ithadbeenhisundoing—thissusceptibility—inAnglo-Indiansociety;notweepingattherighttime,orlaughingeither.Ihavethatinme,hethoughtstandingbythepillar-box,whichcouldnowdissolveintears.Why,Heavenknows.Beautyofsomesortprobably,andtheweightoftheday,whichbeginningwiththatvisittoClarissahadexhaustedhimwithitsheat,itsintensity,andthedrip,drip,ofoneimpressionafteranotherdownintothatcellarwheretheystood,deep,dark,andnoonewouldeverknow.