Місіс Деллоуей

           Shehadalways,evenasagirl,asortoftimidity,whichinmiddleagebecomesconventionality,andthenit’sallup,it’sallup,hethought,lookingratherdrearilyintotheglassydepths,andwonderingwhetherbycallingatthathourhehadannoyedher;overcomewithshamesuddenlyathavingbeenafool;wept;beenemotional;toldhereverything,asusual,asusual.

           Asacloudcrossesthesun,silencefallsonLondon;andfallsonthemind.Effortceases.Timeflapsonthemast.Therewestop;therewestand.Rigid,theskeletonofhabitaloneupholdsthehumanframe.Wherethereisnothing,PeterWalshsaidtohimself;feelinghollowedout,utterlyemptywithin.Clarissarefusedme,hethought.Hestoodtherethinking,Clarissarefusedme.

           Ah,saidSt.Margaret’s,likeahostesswhocomesintoherdrawing-roomontheverystrokeofthehourandfindshergueststherealready.Iamnotlate.No,itispreciselyhalf-pasteleven,shesays.Yet,thoughsheisperfectlyright,hervoice,beingthevoiceofthehostess,isreluctanttoinflictitsindividuality.Somegriefforthepastholdsitback;someconcernforthepresent.Itishalf-pasteleven,shesays,andthesoundofSt.Margaret’sglidesintotherecessesoftheheartandburiesitselfinringafterringofsound,likesomethingalivewhichwantstoconfideitself,todisperseitself,tobe,withatremorofdelight,atrest—likeClarissaherself,thoughtPeterWalsh,comingdownthestairsonthestrokeofthehourinwhite.