Місіс Деллоуей

           Thenshewoulddosomethingquiteobvioustodefendherself,likethisfusswiththedog—butitnevertookhimin,healwayssawthroughClarissa.Notthathesaidanything,ofcourse;justsatlookingglum.Itwasthewaytheirquarrelsoftenbegan.

           Sheshutthedoor.Atoncehebecameextremelydepressed.Itallseemeduseless—goingonbeinginlove;goingonquarrelling;goingonmakingitup,andhewanderedoffalone,amongouthouses,stables,lookingatthehorses.(Theplacewasquiteahumbleone;theParryswereneververywelloff;buttherewerealwaysgroomsandstable-boysabout—Clarissalovedriding—andanoldcoachman—whatwashisname?—anoldnurse,oldMoody,oldGoody,somesuchnametheycalledher,whomonewastakentovisitinalittleroomwithlotsofphotographs,lotsofbird-cages.)

           Itwasanawfulevening!Hegrewmoreandmoregloomy,notaboutthatonly;abouteverything.Andhecouldn’tseeher;couldn’texplaintoher;couldn’thaveitout.Therewerealwayspeopleabout—she’dgoonasifnothinghadhappened.Thatwasthedevilishpartofher—thiscoldness,thiswoodenness,somethingveryprofoundinher,whichhehadfeltagainthismorningtalkingtoher;animpenetrability.YetHeavenknowshelovedher.Shehadsomequeerpoweroffiddlingonone’snerves,turningone’snervestofiddle-strings,yes.