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- Вирджиния Вульф
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- Миссис Дэллоуэй
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- Стр. 13/96
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Dempster
wagered
,
and
away
and
away
it
went
,
fast
and
fading
,
away
and
away
the
aeroplane
shot
;
soaring
over
Greenwich
and
all
the
masts
;
over
the
little
island
of
grey
churches
,
St.
Paul
's
and
the
rest
till
,
on
either
side
of
London
,
fields
spread
out
and
dark
brown
woods
where
adventurous
thrushes
hopping
boldly
,
glancing
quickly
,
snatched
the
snail
and
tapped
him
on
a
stone
,
once
,
twice
,
thrice
.
Away
and
away
the
aeroplane
shot
,
till
it
was
nothing
but
a
bright
spark
;
an
aspiration
;
a
concentration
;
a
symbol
(
so
it
seemed
to
Mr.
Bentley
,
vigorously
rolling
his
strip
of
turf
at
Greenwich
)
of
man
's
soul
;
of
his
determination
,
thought
Mr.
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
.
Then
,
while
a
seedy-looking
nondescript
man
carrying
a
leather
bag
stood
on
the
steps
of
St.
Paul
's
Cathedral
,
and
hesitated
,
for
within
was
what
balm
,
how
great
a
welcome
,
how
many
tombs
with
banners
waving
over
them
,
tokens
of
victories
not
over
armies
,
but
over
,
he
thought
,
that
plaguy
spirit
of
truth
seeking
which
leaves
me
at
present
without
a
situation
,
and
more
than
that
,
the
cathedral
offers
company
,
he
thought
,
invites
you
to
membership
of
a
society
;
great
men
belong
to
it
;
martyrs
have
died
for
it
;
why
not
enter
in
,
he
thought
,
put
this
leather
bag
stuffed
with
pamphlets
before
an
altar
,
a
cross
,
the
symbol
of
something
which
has
soared
beyond
seeking
and
questing
and
knocking
of
words
together
and
has
become
all
spirit
,
disembodied
,
ghostly
--
why
not
enter
in
?
he
thought
and
while
he
hesitated
out
flew
the
aeroplane
over
Ludgate
Circus
.
It
was
strange
;
it
was
still
.
Not
a
sound
was
to
be
heard
above
the
traffic
.
Unguided
it
seemed
;
sped
of
its
own
free
will
.
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.
"
What
are
they
looking
at
?
"
said
Clarissa
Dalloway
to
the
maid
who
opened
her
door
.
The
hall
of
the
house
was
cool
as
a
vault
.
Mrs.
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
.
The
cook
whistled
in
the
kitchen
.
She
heard
the
click
of
the
typewriter
.
It
was
her
life
,
and
,
bending
her
head
over
the
hall
table
,
she
bowed
beneath
the
influence
,
felt
blessed
and
purified
,
saying
to
herself
,
as
she
took
the
pad
with
the
telephone
message
on
it
,
how
moments
like
this
are
buds
on
the
tree
of
life
,
flowers
of
darkness
they
are
,
she
thought
(
as
if
some
lovely
rose
had
blossomed
for
her
eyes
only
)
;
not
for
a
moment
did
she
believe
in
God
;
but
all
the
more
,
she
thought
,
taking
up
the
pad
,
must
one
repay
in
daily
life
to
servants
,
yes
,
to
dogs
and
canaries
,
above
all
to
Richard
her
husband
,
who
was
the
foundation
of
it
--
of
the
gay
sounds
,
of
the
green
lights
,
of
the
cook
even
whistling
,
for
Mrs.
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.
Dalloway
,
ma'am
"
--
Clarissa
read
on
the
telephone
pad
,
"
Lady
Bruton
wishes
to
know
if
Mr.
Dalloway
will
lunch
with
her
to-day
.
"
