Місіс Деллоуей

           Athingtherewasthatmattered;athing,wreathedaboutwithchatter,defaced,obscuredinherownlife,letdropeverydayincorruption,lies,chatter.Thishehadpreserved.Deathwasdefiance.Deathwasanattempttocommunicate;peoplefeelingtheimpossibilityofreachingthecentrewhich,mystically,evadedthem;closenessdrewapart;rapturefaded,onewasalone.Therewasanembraceindeath.

           Butthisyoungmanwhohadkilledhimself—hadheplungedholdinghistreasure?“Ifitwerenowtodie,’twerenowtobemosthappy,”shehadsaidtoherselfonce,comingdowninwhite.

           Ortherewerethepoetsandthinkers.Supposehehadhadthatpassion,andhadgonetoSirWilliamBradshaw,agreatdoctoryettoherobscurelyevil,withoutsexorlust,extremelypolitetowomen,butcapableofsomeindescribableoutrage—forcingyoursoul,thatwasit—ifthisyoungmanhadgonetohim,andSirWilliamhadimpressedhim,likethat,withhispower,mighthenotthenhavesaid(indeedshefeltitnow),Lifeismadeintolerable;theymakelifeintolerable,menlikethat?

           Then(shehadfeltitonlythismorning)therewastheterror;theoverwhelmingincapacity,one’sparentsgivingitintoone’shands,thislife,tobelivedtotheend,tobewalkedwithserenely;therewasinthedepthsofherheartanawfulfear.