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.