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.