Місіс Деллоуей

           Diditmatterthen,sheaskedherself,walkingtowardsBondStreet,diditmatterthatshemustinevitablyceasecompletely;allthismustgoonwithouther;didsheresentit;ordiditnotbecomeconsolingtobelievethatdeathendedabsolutely?butthatsomehowinthestreetsofLondon,ontheebbandflowofthings,here,there,shesurvived,Petersurvived,livedineachother,shebeingpart,shewaspositive,ofthetreesathome;ofthehousethere,ugly,ramblingalltobitsandpiecesasitwas;partofpeopleshehadnevermet;beinglaidoutlikeamistbetweenthepeoplesheknewbest,wholiftedherontheirbranchesasshehadseenthetreesliftthemist,butitspreadeversofar,herlife,herself.ButwhatwasshedreamingasshelookedintoHatchards’shopwindow?Whatwasshetryingtorecover?Whatimageofwhitedawninthecountry,asshereadinthebookspreadopen:

           Fearnomoretheheato’thesun

           Northefuriouswinter’srages.

           Thislateageoftheworld’sexperiencehadbredinthemall,allmenandwomen,awelloftears.Tearsandsorrows;courageandendurance;aperfectlyuprightandstoicalbearing.Think,forexample,ofthewomansheadmiredmost,LadyBexborough,openingthebazaar.

           TherewereJorrocks’JauntsandJollities;therewereSoapySpongeandMrs.Asquith’sMemoirsandBigGameShootinginNigeria,allspreadopen.Eversomanybookstherewere;butnonethatseemedexactlyrighttotaketoEvelynWhitbreadinhernursinghome.