Місіс Деллоуей

           Hewasastonishedbythebeauty;itwasencouragingtoo,forwherethereturnedAnglo-Indiansatbyrights(heknewcrowdsofthem)intheOrientalClubbiliouslysumminguptheruinoftheworld,herewashe,asyoungasever;envyingyoungpeopletheirsummertimeandtherestofit,andmorethansuspectingfromthewordsofagirl,fromahousemaid’slaughter—intangiblethingsyoucouldn’tlayyourhandson—thatshiftinthewholepyramidalaccumulationwhichinhisyouthhadseemedimmovable.Ontopofthemithadpressed;weighedthemdown,thewomenespecially,likethoseflowersClarissa’sAuntHelenausedtopressbetweensheetsofgreyblotting-paperwithLittré‘sdictionaryontop,sittingunderthelampafterdinner.Shewasdeadnow.Hehadheardofher,fromClarissa,losingthesightofoneeye.Itseemedsofitting—oneofnature’smasterpieces—thatoldMissParryshouldturntoglass.Shewoulddielikesomebirdinafrostgrippingherperch.Shebelongedtoadifferentage,butbeingsoentire,socomplete,wouldalwaysstanduponthehorizon,stone-white,eminent,likealighthousemarkingsomepaststageonthisadventurous,long,longvoyage,thisinterminable(hefeltforacoppertobuyapaperandreadaboutSurreyandYorkshire—hehadheldoutthatcoppermillionsoftimes.Surreywasalloutoncemore)—thisinterminablelife.Butcricketwasnomeregame.Cricketwasimportant.Hecouldneverhelpreadingaboutcricket.