Місіс Деллоуей

           Therichbenignantcigarsmokeeddiedcoollydownhisthroat;hepuffeditoutagaininringswhichbreastedtheairbravelyforamoment;blue,circular—IshalltryandgetawordalonewithElizabethto-night,hethought—thenbegantowobbleintohour-glassshapesandtaperaway;oddshapestheytake,hethought.Suddenlyheclosedhiseyes,raisedhishandwithaneffort,andthrewawaytheheavyendofhiscigar.Agreatbrushsweptsmoothacrosshismind,sweepingacrossitmovingbranches,children’svoices,theshuffleoffeet,andpeoplepassing,andhummingtraffic,risingandfallingtraffic.Down,downhesankintotheplumesandfeathersofsleep,sank,andwasmuffledover.

           ThegreynurseresumedherknittingasPeterWalsh,onthehotseatbesideher,begansnoring.Inhergreydress,movingherhandsindefatigablyyetquietly,sheseemedlikethechampionoftherightsofsleepers,likeoneofthosespectralpresenceswhichriseintwilightinwoodsmadeofskyandbranches.Thesolitarytraveller,haunteroflanes,disturberofferns,anddevastatorofgreathemlockplants,lookingup,suddenlyseesthegiantfigureattheendoftheride.

           Byconvictionanatheistperhaps,heistakenbysurprisewithmomentsofextraordinaryexaltation.Nothingexistsoutsideusexceptastateofmind,hethinks;adesireforsolace,forrelief,forsomethingoutsidethesemiserablepigmies,thesefeeble,theseugly,thesecravenmenandwomen.