Місіс Деллоуей

           Turnertoclearaway;ratherletmewalkstraightontothisgreatfigure,whowill,withatossofherhead,mountmeonherstreamersandletmeblowtonothingnesswiththerest.

           Sucharethevisions.Thesolitarytravellerissoonbeyondthewood;andthere,comingtothedoorwithshadedeyes,possiblytolookforhisreturn,withhandsraised,withwhiteapronblowing,isanelderlywomanwhoseems(sopowerfulisthisinfirmity)toseek,overadesert,alostson;tosearchforariderdestroyed;tobethefigureofthemotherwhosesonshavebeenkilledinthebattlesoftheworld.So,asthesolitarytravelleradvancesdownthevillagestreetwherethewomenstandknittingandthemendiginthegarden,theeveningseemsominous;thefiguresstill;asifsomeaugustfate,knowntothem,awaitedwithoutfear,wereabouttosweepthemintocompleteannihilation.

           Indoorsamongordinarythings,thecupboard,thetable,thewindow-sillwithitsgeraniums,suddenlytheoutlineofthelandlady,bendingtoremovethecloth,becomessoftwithlight,anadorableemblemwhichonlytherecollectionofcoldhumancontactsforbidsustoembrace.Shetakesthemarmalade;sheshutsitinthecupboard.

           “Thereisnothingmoreto-night,sir?”

           Buttowhomdoesthesolitarytravellermakereply?

           SotheelderlynurseknittedoverthesleepingbabyinRegent’sPark.SoPeterWalshsnored.

           Hewokewithextremesuddenness,sayingtohimself,“Thedeathofthesoul.