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She knew nothing; no language, no history; she scarcely read a book now, except memoirs in bed; and yet to her it was absolutely absorbing; all this; the cabs passing; and she would not say of Peter, she would not say of herself, I am this, I am that. But it had been a silly thing to do, in many ways, Peter said, to marry like that; “a perfect goose she was,” he said, but, he said, “we had a splendid time of it,” but how could that be? and how odd it was to know him and yet not know a single thing that had happened to him. Very likely, for after all it must be galling for him (though he was an oddity, a sort of sprite, not at all an ordinary man), it must be lonely at his age to have no home, nowhere to go to. Of course he would; he would love to stay with them, and that was how it came out. For, said Sally, Clarissa was at heart a snob — one had to admit it, a snob. Just a few fairy lamps, Clarissa Dalloway had said, in the back garden! Her only gift was knowing people almost by instinct, she thought, walking on. And it was that that was between them, she was convinced.
It was the state of the world that interested him; Wagner, Pope’s poetry, people’s characters eternally, and the defects of her own soul. For in marriage a little licence, a little independence there must be between people living together day in day out in the same house; which Richard gave her, and she him. Some committee, she never asked what.) But with Peter everything had to be shared; everything gone into. She felt very young; at the same time unspeakably aged. She could remember scene after scene at Bourton — Peter furious; Hugh not, of course, his match in any way, but still not a positive imbecile as Peter made out; not a mere barber’s block. Messages were passing from the Fleet to the Admiralty. When his old mother wanted him to give up shooting or to take her to Bath he did it, without a word; he was really unselfish, and as for saying, as Peter did, that he had no heart, no brain, nothing but the manners and breeding of an English gentleman, that was only her dear Peter at his worst; and he could be intolerable; he could be impossible; but adorable to walk with on a morning like this. Arlington Street and Piccadilly seemed to chafe the very air in the Park and lift its leaves hotly, brilliantly, on waves of that divine vitality which Clarissa loved. Yet, said Sally, in her emotional way, with a rush of that enthusiasm which Peter used to love her for, yet dreaded a little now, so effusive she might become — how generous to her friends Clarissa was! But what was she dreaming as she looked into Hatchards’ shop window? What image of white dawn in the country, as she read in the book spread open: This late age of the world’s experience had bred in them all, all men and women, a well of tears. Bentley, sweeping round the cedar tree, to get outside his body, beyond his house, by means of thought, Einstein, speculation, mathematics, the Mendelian theory — away the aeroplane shot. Dalloway raised her hand to her eyes, and, as the maid shut the door to, and she heard the swish of Lucy’s skirts, she felt like a nun who has left the world and feels fold round her the familiar veils and the response to old devotions. Walker was Irish and whistled all day long — one must pay back from this secret deposit of exquisite moments, she thought, lifting the pad, while Lucy stood by her, trying to explain how “Mr. He blacked the King’s boots or counted bottles at Windsor, Peter told her.
Tears and sorrows; courage and endurance; a perfectly upright and stoical bearing. Then, while a seedy-looking nondescript man carrying a leather bag stood on the steps of St. And now, curving up and up, straight up, like something mounting in ecstasy, in pure delight, out from behind poured white smoke looping, writing a T, an O, an F. ” said Clarissa Dalloway to the maid who opened her door. Dalloway, ma’am”— Clarissa read on the telephone pad, “Lady Bruton wishes to know if Mr. Dalloway, ma’am, told me to tell you he would be lunching out.” “Dear! Last time they met, Peter remembered, had been among the cauliflowers in the moonlight, the leaves “like rough bronze” she had said, with her literary turn; and she had picked a rose. Hugh Whitbread it was, strolling past in his white waistcoat, dim, fat, blind, past everything he looked, except self-esteem and comfort.
That she held herself well was true; and had nice hands and feet; and dressed well, considering that she spent little. The way to Regent’s Park Tube station — could they tell her the way to Regent’s Park Tube station — Maisie Johnson wanted to know. And Maisie Johnson, as she joined that gently trudging, vaguely gazing, breeze-kissed company — squirrels perching and preening, sparrow fountains fluttering for crumbs, dogs busy with the railings, busy with each other, while the soft warm air washed over them and lent to the fixed unsurprised gaze with which they received life something whimsical and mollified — Maisie Johnson positively felt she must cry Oh! Take Sally Seton; her relation in the old days with Sally Seton. She sat on the floor — that was her first impression of Sally — she sat on the floor with her arms round her knees, smoking a cigarette. It was an extraordinary beauty of the kind she most admired, dark, large-eyed, with that quality which, since she hadn’t got it herself, she always envied — a sort of abandonment, as if she could say anything, do anything; a quality much commoner in foreigners than in Englishwomen.