Місіс Деллоуей

           Itwillbeasolemnsky,shehadthought,itwillbeaduskysky,turningawayitscheekinbeauty.Butthereitwas—ashenpale,racedoverquicklybytaperingvastclouds.Itwasnewtoher.Thewindmusthaverisen.Shewasgoingtobed,intheroomopposite.Itwasfascinatingtowatchher,movingabout,thatoldlady,crossingtheroom,comingtothewindow.Couldsheseeher?Itwasfascinating,withpeoplestilllaughingandshoutinginthedrawing-room,towatchthatoldwoman,quitequietly,goingtobed.Shepulledtheblindnow.Theclockbeganstriking.Theyoungmanhadkilledhimself;butshedidnotpityhim;withtheclockstrikingthehour,one,two,three,shedidnotpityhim,withallthisgoingon.There!theoldladyhadputoutherlight!thewholehousewasdarknowwiththisgoingon,sherepeated,andthewordscametoher,Fearnomoretheheatofthesun.Shemustgobacktothem.Butwhatanextraordinarynight!Shefeltsomehowverylikehim—theyoungmanwhohadkilledhimself.Shefeltgladthathehaddoneit;thrownitaway.Theclockwasstriking.Theleadencirclesdissolvedintheair.Hemadeherfeelthebeauty;madeherfeelthefun.Butshemustgoback.Shemustassemble.ShemustfindSallyandPeter.Andshecameinfromthelittleroom.

           “ButwhereisClarissa?”saidPeter.HewassittingonthesofawithSally.(Afteralltheseyearshereallycouldnotcallher“LadyRosseter.”)“Where’sthewomangoneto?”heasked.