Місіс Деллоуей

           Evennow,quiteoftenifRichardhadnotbeentherereadingtheTimes,sothatshecouldcrouchlikeabirdandgraduallyrevive,sendroaringupthatimmeasurabledelight,rubbingsticktostick,onethingwithanother,shemusthaveperished.Butthatyoungmanhadkilledhimself.

           Somehowitwasherdisaster—herdisgrace.Itwasherpunishmenttoseesinkanddisappearhereaman,thereawoman,inthisprofounddarkness,andsheforcedtostandhereinhereveningdress.Shehadschemed;shehadpilfered.Shewasneverwhollyadmirable.Shehadwantedsuccess.LadyBexboroughandtherestofit.AndonceshehadwalkedontheterraceatBourton.

           ItwasduetoRichard;shehadneverbeensohappy.Nothingcouldbeslowenough;nothinglasttoolong.Nopleasurecouldequal,shethought,straighteningthechairs,pushinginonebookontheshelf,thishavingdonewiththetriumphsofyouth,lostherselfintheprocessofliving,tofindit,withashockofdelight,asthesunrose,asthedaysank.Manyatimehadshegone,atBourtonwhentheywerealltalking,tolookatthesky;orseenitbetweenpeople’sshouldersatdinner;seenitinLondonwhenshecouldnotsleep.Shewalkedtothewindow.

           Itheld,foolishastheideawas,somethingofherowninit,thiscountrysky,thisskyaboveWestminster.Shepartedthecurtains;shelooked.Oh,buthowsurprising!—intheroomoppositetheoldladystaredstraightather!Shewasgoingtobed.Andthesky.