Місіс Деллоуей

           “Yes,yes,yes,”hesaid,asifshedrewuptothesurfacesomethingwhichpositivelyhurthimasitrose.Stop!Stop!hewantedtocry.Forhewasnotold;hislifewasnotover;notbyanymeans.Hewasonlyjustpastfifty.ShallItellher,hethought,ornot?Hewouldliketomakeacleanbreastofitall.Butsheistoocold,hethought;sewing,withherscissors;DaisywouldlookordinarybesideClarissa.Andshewouldthinkmeafailure,whichIamintheirsense,hethought;intheDalloways’sense.Ohyes,hehadnodoubtaboutthat;hewasafailure,comparedwithallthis—theinlaidtable,themountedpaper-knife,thedolphinandthecandlesticks,thechair-coversandtheoldvaluableEnglishtintedprints—hewasafailure!Idetestthesmugnessofthewholeaffair,hethought;Richard’sdoing,notClarissa’s;savethatshemarriedhim.(HereLucycameintotheroom,carryingsilver,moresilver,butcharming,slender,gracefulshelooked,hethought,asshestoopedtoputitdown.)Andthishasbeengoingonallthetime!hethought;weekafterweek;Clarissa’slife;whileI—hethought;andatonceeverythingseemedtoradiatefromhim;journeys;rides;quarrels;adventures;bridgeparties;loveaffairs;work;work,work!andhetookouthisknifequiteopenly—hisoldhorn-handledknifewhichClarissacouldswearhehadhadthesethirtyyears—andclenchedhisfistuponit.

           Whatanextraordinaryhabitthatwas,Clarissathought;alwaysplayingwithaknife.