Місіс Деллоуей
Butthebranchesparted.Amaningreywasactuallywalkingtowardsthem.ItwasEvans!Butnomudwasonhim;nowounds;hewasnotchanged.Imusttellthewholeworld,Septimuscried,raisinghishand(asthedeadmaninthegreysuitcamenearer),raisinghishandlikesomecolossalfigurewhohaslamentedthefateofmanforagesinthedesertalonewithhishandspressedtohisforehead,furrowsofdespaironhischeeks,andnowseeslightonthedesert’sedgewhichbroadensandstrikestheiron-blackfigure(andSeptimushalfrosefromhischair),andwithlegionsofmenprostratebehindhimhe,thegiantmourner,receivesforonemomentonhisfacethewhole—
“ButIamsounhappy,Septimus,”saidReziatryingtomakehimsitdown.
Themillionslamented;foragestheyhadsorrowed.Hewouldturnround,hewouldtelltheminafewmoments,onlyafewmomentsmore,ofthisrelief,ofthisjoy,ofthisastonishingrevelation—
“Thetime,Septimus,”Reziarepeated.“Whatisthetime?”
Hewastalking,hewasstarting,thismanmustnoticehim.Hewaslookingatthem.
“Iwilltellyouthetime,”saidSeptimus,veryslowly,verydrowsily,smilingmysteriously.Ashesatsmilingatthedeadmaninthegreysuitthequarterstruck—thequartertotwelve.
Andthatisbeingyoung,PeterWalshthoughtashepassedthem.
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