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- Вирджиния Вульф
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- Миссис Дэллоуэй
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- Стр. 31/96
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The
final
scene
,
the
terrible
scene
which
he
believed
had
mattered
more
than
anything
in
the
whole
of
his
life
(
it
might
be
an
exaggeration
--
but
still
so
it
did
seem
now
)
happened
at
three
o'clock
in
the
afternoon
of
a
very
hot
day
.
It
was
a
trifle
that
led
up
to
it
--
Sally
at
lunch
saying
something
about
Dalloway
,
and
calling
him
"
My
name
is
Dalloway
"
;
whereupon
Clarissa
suddenly
stiffened
,
coloured
,
in
a
way
she
had
,
and
rapped
out
sharply
,
"
We
've
had
enough
of
that
feeble
joke
.
"
That
was
all
;
but
for
him
it
was
precisely
as
if
she
had
said
,
"
I
'm
only
amusing
myself
with
you
;
I
've
an
understanding
with
Richard
Dalloway
.
"
So
he
took
it
.
He
had
not
slept
for
nights
.
"
It
's
got
to
be
finished
one
way
or
the
other
,
"
he
said
to
himself
.
He
sent
a
note
to
her
by
Sally
asking
her
to
meet
him
by
the
fountain
at
three
.
"
Something
very
important
has
happened
,
"
he
scribbled
at
the
end
of
it
.
The
fountain
was
in
the
middle
of
a
little
shrubbery
,
far
from
the
house
,
with
shrubs
and
trees
all
round
it
.
There
she
came
,
even
before
the
time
,
and
they
stood
with
the
fountain
between
them
,
the
spout
(
it
was
broken
)
dribbling
water
incessantly
.
How
sights
fix
themselves
upon
the
mind
!
For
example
,
the
vivid
green
moss
.
She
did
not
move
.
"
Tell
me
the
truth
,
tell
me
the
truth
,
"
he
kept
on
saying
.
He
felt
as
if
his
forehead
would
burst
.
She
seemed
contracted
,
petrified
.
She
did
not
move
.
"
Tell
me
the
truth
,
"
he
repeated
,
when
suddenly
that
old
man
Breitkopf
popped
his
head
in
carrying
the
Times
;
stared
at
them
;
gaped
;
and
went
away
.
They
neither
of
them
moved
.
"
Tell
me
the
truth
,
"
he
repeated
.
He
felt
that
he
was
grinding
against
something
physically
hard
;
she
was
unyielding
.
She
was
like
iron
,
like
flint
,
rigid
up
the
backbone
.
And
when
she
said
,
"
It
's
no
use
.
It
's
no
use
.
This
is
the
end
"
--
after
he
had
spoken
for
hours
,
it
seemed
,
with
the
tears
running
down
his
cheeks
--
it
was
as
if
she
had
hit
him
in
the
face
.
She
turned
,
she
left
him
,
went
away
.
"
Clarissa
!
"
he
cried
.
"
Clarissa
!
"
But
she
never
came
back
.
It
was
over
.
He
went
away
that
night
.
He
never
saw
her
again
.
It
was
awful
,
he
cried
,
awful
,
awful
!
Still
,
the
sun
was
hot
.
Still
,
one
got
over
things
.
Still
,
life
had
a
way
of
adding
day
to
day
.
Still
,
he
thought
,
yawning
and
beginning
to
take
notice
--
Regent
's
Park
had
changed
very
little
since
he
was
a
boy
,
except
for
the
squirrels
--
still
,
presumably
there
were
compensations
--
when
little
Elise
Mitchell
,
who
had
been
picking
up
pebbles
to
add
to
the
pebble
collection
which
she
and
her
brother
were
making
on
the
nursery
mantelpiece
,
plumped
her
handful
down
on
the
nurse
's
knee
and
scudded
off
again
full
tilt
into
a
lady
's
legs
.
Peter
Walsh
laughed
out
.
But
Lucrezia
Warren
Smith
was
saying
to
herself
,
It
's
wicked
;
why
should
I
suffer
?
she
was
asking
,
as
she
walked
down
the
broad
path
.
No
;
I
ca
n't
stand
it
any
longer
,
she
was
saying
,
having
left
Septimus
,
who
was
n't
Septimus
any
longer
,
to
say
hard
,
cruel
,
wicked
things
,
to
talk
to
himself
,
to
talk
to
a
dead
man
,
on
the
seat
over
there
;
when
the
child
ran
full
tilt
into
her
,
fell
flat
,
and
burst
out
crying
.
That
was
comforting
rather
.
She
stood
her
upright
,
dusted
her
frock
,
kissed
her
.
