Місіс Деллоуей

           Looktheunseenbadehim,thevoicewhichnowcommunicatedwithhimwhowasthegreatestofmankind,Septimus,latelytakenfromlifetodeath,theLordwhohadcometorenewsociety,wholaylikeacoverlet,asnowblanketsmittenonlybythesun,foreverunwasted,sufferingforever,thescapegoat,theeternalsufferer,buthedidnotwantit,hemoaned,puttingfromhimwithawaveofhishandthateternalsuffering,thateternalloneliness.

           “Look,”sherepeated,forhemustnottalkaloudtohimselfoutofdoors.

           “Ohlook,”sheimploredhim.Butwhatwastheretolookat?Afewsheep.Thatwasall.

           ThewaytoRegent’sParkTubestation—couldtheytellherthewaytoRegent’sParkTubestation—MaisieJohnsonwantedtoknow.ShewasonlyupfromEdinburghtwodaysago.

           “Notthisway—overthere!”Reziaexclaimed,wavingheraside,lestsheshouldseeSeptimus.

           Bothseemedqueer,MaisieJohnsonthought.Everythingseemedveryqueer.InLondonforthefirsttime,cometotakeupapostatheruncle’sinLeadenhallStreet,andnowwalkingthroughRegent’sParkinthemorning,thiscoupleonthechairsgaveherquiteaturn;theyoungwomanseemingforeign,themanlookingqueer;sothatshouldshebeveryoldshewouldstillrememberandmakeitjangleagainamonghermemorieshowshehadwalkedthroughRegent’sParkonafinesummer’smorningfiftyyearsago.