Місіс Деллоуей
Itisamotorhorndowninthestreet,hemuttered;butuphereitcannonedfromrocktorock,divided,metinshocksofsoundwhichroseinsmoothcolumns(thatmusicshouldbevisiblewasadiscovery)andbecameananthem,ananthemtwinedroundnowbyashepherdboy’spiping(That’sanoldmanplayingapennywhistlebythepublic-house,hemuttered)which,astheboystoodstillcamebubblingfromhispipe,andthen,asheclimbedhigher,madeitsexquisiteplaintwhilethetrafficpassedbeneath.Thisboy’selegyisplayedamongthetraffic,thoughtSeptimus.Nowhewithdrawsupintothesnows,androseshangabouthim—thethickredroseswhichgrowonmybedroomwall,heremindedhimself.Themusicstopped.Hehashispenny,hereasoneditout,andhasgoneontothenextpublic-house.
Buthehimselfremainedhighonhisrock,likeadrownedsailoronarock.Ileantovertheedgeoftheboatandfelldown,hethought.Iwentunderthesea.Ihavebeendead,andyetamnowalive,butletmereststill;hebegged(hewastalkingtohimselfagain—itwasawful,awful!);andas,beforewaking,thevoicesofbirdsandthesoundofwheelschimeandchatterinaqueerharmony,growlouderandlouderandthesleeperfeelshimselfdrawingtotheshoresoflife,sohefelthimselfdrawingtowardslife,thesungrowinghotter,criessoundinglouder,somethingtremendousabouttohappen.
Hehadonlytoopenhiseyes;butaweightwasonthem;afear.Hestrained;hepushed;helooked;hesawRegent’sParkbeforehim.
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