Місіс Деллоуей

           Thensuddenly,asatraincomesoutofatunnel,theaeroplanerushedoutofthecloudsagain,thesoundboringintotheearsofallpeopleintheMall,intheGreenPark,inPiccadilly,inRegentStreet,inRegent’sPark,andthebarofsmokecurvedbehindanditdroppeddown,anditsoaredupandwroteoneletterafteranother—butwhatwordwasitwriting?

           LucreziaWarrenSmith,sittingbyherhusband’ssideonaseatinRegent’sParkintheBroadWalk,lookedup.

           “Look,look,Septimus!”shecried.ForDr.Holmeshadtoldhertomakeherhusband(whohadnothingwhateverseriouslythematterwithhimbutwasalittleoutofsorts)takeaninterestinthingsoutsidehimself.

           So,thoughtSeptimus,lookingup,theyaresignallingtome.Notindeedinactualwords;thatis,hecouldnotreadthelanguageyet;butitwasplainenough,thisbeauty,thisexquisitebeauty,andtearsfilledhiseyesashelookedatthesmokewordslanguishingandmeltingintheskyandbestowinguponhimintheirinexhaustiblecharityandlaughinggoodnessoneshapeafteranotherofunimaginablebeautyandsignallingtheirintentiontoprovidehim,fornothing,forever,forlookingmerely,withbeauty,morebeauty!Tearsrandownhischeeks.

           Itwastoffee;theywereadvertisingtoffee,anursemaidtoldRezia.Togethertheybegantospellt...o...f...

           “K...R...