Місіс Деллоуей

           FarwasItalyandthewhitehousesandtheroomwherehersisterssatmakinghats,andthestreetscrowdedeveryeveningwithpeoplewalking,laughingoutloud,nothalfalivelikepeoplehere,huddledupinBathchairs,lookingatafewuglyflowersstuckinpots!

           “ForyoushouldseetheMilangardens,”shesaidaloud.Buttowhom?

           Therewasnobody.Herwordsfaded.Soarocketfades.Itssparks,havinggrazedtheirwayintothenight,surrendertoit,darkdescends,poursovertheoutlinesofhousesandtowers;bleakhillsidessoftenandfallin.Butthoughtheyaregone,thenightisfullofthem;robbedofcolour,blankofwindows,theyexistmoreponderously,giveoutwhatthefrankdaylightfailstotransmit—thetroubleandsuspenseofthingsconglomeratedthereinthedarkness;huddledtogetherinthedarkness;reftofthereliefwhichdawnbringswhen,washingthewallswhiteandgrey,spottingeachwindow-pane,liftingthemistfromthefields,showingthered-browncowspeacefullygrazing,allisoncemoredeckedouttotheeye;existsagain.