-
Главная
-
- Книги
-
- Авторы
-
- Вирджиния Вульф
-
- Миссис Дэллоуэй
-
- Стр. 3/96
Для того чтобы воспользоваться озвучкой предложений, необходимо
Войти или зарегистрироваться
Озвучка предложений доступна при наличии PRO-доступа
Купить PRO-доступ
She
would
not
say
of
any
one
in
the
world
now
that
they
were
this
or
were
that
.
She
felt
very
young
;
at
the
same
time
unspeakably
aged
.
She
sliced
like
a
knife
through
everything
;
at
the
same
time
was
outside
,
looking
on
.
She
had
a
perpetual
sense
,
as
she
watched
the
taxi
cabs
,
of
being
out
,
out
,
far
out
to
sea
and
alone
;
she
always
had
the
feeling
that
it
was
very
,
very
dangerous
to
live
even
one
day
.
Not
that
she
thought
herself
clever
,
or
much
out
of
the
ordinary
.
How
she
had
got
through
life
on
the
few
twigs
of
knowledge
Fräulein
Daniels
gave
them
she
could
not
think
.
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
.
Her
only
gift
was
knowing
people
almost
by
instinct
,
she
thought
,
walking
on
.
If
you
put
her
in
a
room
with
some
one
,
up
went
her
back
like
a
cat
's
;
or
she
purred
.
Devonshire
House
,
Bath
House
,
the
house
with
the
china
cockatoo
,
she
had
seen
them
all
lit
up
once
;
and
remembered
Sylvia
,
Fred
,
Sally
Seton
--
such
hosts
of
people
;
and
dancing
all
night
;
and
the
waggons
plodding
past
to
market
;
and
driving
home
across
the
Park
.
She
remembered
once
throwing
a
shilling
into
the
Serpentine
.
But
every
one
remembered
;
what
she
loved
was
this
,
here
,
now
,
in
front
of
her
;
the
fat
lady
in
the
cab
.
Did
it
matter
then
,
she
asked
herself
,
walking
towards
Bond
Street
,
did
it
matter
that
she
must
inevitably
cease
completely
;
all
this
must
go
on
without
her
;
did
she
resent
it
;
or
did
it
not
become
consoling
to
believe
that
death
ended
absolutely
?
but
that
somehow
in
the
streets
of
London
,
on
the
ebb
and
flow
of
things
,
here
,
there
,
she
survived
,
Peter
survived
,
lived
in
each
other
,
she
being
part
,
she
was
positive
,
of
the
trees
at
home
;
of
the
house
there
,
ugly
,
rambling
all
to
bits
and
pieces
as
it
was
;
part
of
people
she
had
never
met
;
being
laid
out
like
a
mist
between
the
people
she
knew
best
,
who
lifted
her
on
their
branches
as
she
had
seen
the
trees
lift
the
mist
,
but
it
spread
ever
so
far
,
her
life
,
herself
.
But
what
was
she
dreaming
as
she
looked
into
Hatchards
'
shop
window
?
What
was
she
trying
to
recover
?
What
image
of
white
dawn
in
the
country
,
as
she
read
in
the
book
spread
open
:
Fear
no
more
the
heat
o
'
the
sun
Nor
the
furious
winter
's
rages
.
This
late
age
of
the
world
's
experience
had
bred
in
them
all
,
all
men
and
women
,
a
well
of
tears
.
Tears
and
sorrows
;
courage
and
endurance
;
a
perfectly
upright
and
stoical
bearing
.
Think
,
for
example
,
of
the
woman
she
admired
most
,
Lady
Bexborough
,
opening
the
bazaar
.
There
were
Jorrocks
'
Jaunts
and
Jollities
;
there
were
Soapy
Sponge
and
Mrs.
Asquith
's
Memoirs
and
Big
Game
Shooting
in
Nigeria
,
all
spread
open
.
Ever
so
many
books
there
were
;
but
none
that
seemed
exactly
right
to
take
to
Evelyn
Whitbread
in
her
nursing
home
.
Nothing
that
would
serve
to
amuse
her
and
make
that
indescribably
dried-up
little
woman
look
,
as
Clarissa
came
in
,
just
for
a
moment
cordial
;
before
they
settled
down
for
the
usual
interminable
talk
of
women
's
ailments
.
How
much
she
wanted
it
--
that
people
should
look
pleased
as
she
came
in
,
Clarissa
thought
and
turned
and
walked
back
towards
Bond
Street
,
annoyed
,
because
it
was
silly
to
have
other
reasons
for
doing
things
.
Much
rather
would
she
have
been
one
of
those
people
like
Richard
who
did
things
for
themselves
,
whereas
,
she
thought
,
waiting
to
cross
,
half
the
time
she
did
things
not
simply
,
not
for
themselves
;
but
to
make
people
think
this
or
that
;
perfect
idiocy
she
knew
(
and
now
the
policeman
held
up
his
hand
)
for
no
one
was
ever
for
a
second
taken
in
.
Oh
if
she
could
have
had
her
life
over
again
!
she
thought
,
stepping
on
to
the
pavement
,
could
have
looked
even
differently
!
She
would
have
been
,
in
the
first
place
,
dark
like
Lady
Bexborough
,
with
a
skin
of
crumpled
leather
and
beautiful
eyes
.
She
would
have
been
,
like
Lady
Bexborough
,
slow
and
stately
;
rather
large
;
interested
in
politics
like
a
man
;
with
a
country
house
;
very
dignified
,
very
sincere
.
Instead
of
which
she
had
a
narrow
pea-stick
figure
;
a
ridiculous
little
face
,
beaked
like
a
bird
's
.
That
she
held
herself
well
was
true
;
and
had
nice
hands
and
feet
;
and
dressed
well
,
considering
that
she
spent
little
.
But
often
now
this
body
she
wore
(
she
stopped
to
look
at
a
Dutch
picture
)
,
this
body
,
with
all
its
capacities
,
seemed
nothing
--
nothing
at
all
.
