-
Главная
-
- Книги
-
- Авторы
-
- Вирджиния Вульф
-
- Миссис Дэллоуэй
-
- Стр. 54/96
Для того чтобы воспользоваться озвучкой предложений, необходимо
Войти или зарегистрироваться
Озвучка предложений доступна при наличии PRO-доступа
Купить PRO-доступ
"
which
Richard
thought
all
stuffing
and
bunkum
,
but
no
harm
in
it
,
of
course
,
and
Hugh
went
on
drafting
sentiments
in
alphabetical
order
of
the
highest
nobility
,
brushing
the
cigar
ash
from
his
waistcoat
,
and
summing
up
now
and
then
the
progress
they
had
made
until
,
finally
,
he
read
out
the
draft
of
a
letter
which
Lady
Bruton
felt
certain
was
a
masterpiece
.
Could
her
own
meaning
sound
like
that
?
Hugh
could
not
guarantee
that
the
editor
would
put
it
in
;
but
he
would
be
meeting
somebody
at
luncheon
.
Whereupon
Lady
Bruton
,
who
seldom
did
a
graceful
thing
,
stuffed
all
Hugh
's
carnations
into
the
front
of
her
dress
,
and
flinging
her
hands
out
called
him
"
My
Prime
Minister
!
"
What
she
would
have
done
without
them
both
she
did
not
know
.
They
rose
.
And
Richard
Dalloway
strolled
off
as
usual
to
have
a
look
at
the
General
's
portrait
,
because
he
meant
,
whenever
he
had
a
moment
of
leisure
,
to
write
a
history
of
Lady
Bruton
's
family
.
And
Millicent
Bruton
was
very
proud
of
her
family
.
But
they
could
wait
,
they
could
wait
,
she
said
,
looking
at
the
picture
;
meaning
that
her
family
,
of
military
men
,
administrators
,
admirals
,
had
been
men
of
action
,
who
had
done
their
duty
;
and
Richard
's
first
duty
was
to
his
country
,
but
it
was
a
fine
face
,
she
said
;
and
all
the
papers
were
ready
for
Richard
down
at
Aldmixton
whenever
the
time
came
;
the
Labour
Government
she
meant
.
"
Ah
,
the
news
from
India
!
"
she
cried
.
And
then
,
as
they
stood
in
the
hall
taking
yellow
gloves
from
the
bowl
on
the
malachite
table
and
Hugh
was
offering
Miss
Brush
with
quite
unnecessary
courtesy
some
discarded
ticket
or
other
compliment
,
which
she
loathed
from
the
depths
of
her
heart
and
blushed
brick
red
,
Richard
turned
to
Lady
Bruton
,
with
his
hat
in
his
hand
,
and
said
,
"
We
shall
see
you
at
our
party
to-night
?
"
whereupon
Lady
Bruton
resumed
the
magnificence
which
letter-writing
had
shattered
.
She
might
come
;
or
she
might
not
come
.
Clarissa
had
wonderful
energy
.
Parties
terrified
Lady
Bruton
.
But
then
,
she
was
getting
old
.
So
she
intimated
,
standing
at
her
doorway
;
handsome
;
very
erect
;
while
her
chow
stretched
behind
her
,
and
Miss
Brush
disappeared
into
the
background
with
her
hands
full
of
papers
.
And
Lady
Bruton
went
ponderously
,
majestically
,
up
to
her
room
,
lay
,
one
arm
extended
,
on
the
sofa
.
She
sighed
,
she
snored
,
not
that
she
was
asleep
,
only
drowsy
and
heavy
,
drowsy
and
heavy
,
like
a
field
of
clover
in
the
sunshine
this
hot
June
day
,
with
the
bees
going
round
and
about
and
the
yellow
butterflies
.
Always
she
went
back
to
those
fields
down
in
Devonshire
,
where
she
had
jumped
the
brooks
on
Patty
,
her
pony
,
with
Mortimer
and
Tom
,
her
brothers
.
And
there
were
the
dogs
;
there
were
the
rats
;
there
were
her
father
and
mother
on
the
lawn
under
the
trees
,
with
the
tea-things
out
,
and
the
beds
of
dahlias
,
the
hollyhocks
,
the
pampas
grass
;
and
they
,
little
wretches
,
always
up
to
some
mischief
!
stealing
back
through
the
shrubbery
,
so
as
not
to
be
seen
,
all
bedraggled
from
some
roguery
.
What
old
nurse
used
to
say
about
her
frocks
!
Ah
dear
,
she
remembered
--
it
was
Wednesday
in
Brook
Street
.
Those
kind
good
fellows
,
Richard
Dalloway
,
Hugh
Whitbread
,
had
gone
this
hot
day
through
the
streets
whose
growl
came
up
to
her
lying
on
the
sofa
.
Power
was
hers
,
position
,
income
.
She
had
lived
in
the
forefront
of
her
time
.
She
had
had
good
friends
;
known
the
ablest
men
of
her
day
.
Murmuring
London
flowed
up
to
her
,
and
her
hand
,
lying
on
the
sofa
back
,
curled
upon
some
imaginary
baton
such
as
her
grandfathers
might
have
held
,
holding
which
she
seemed
,
drowsy
and
heavy
,
to
be
commanding
battalions
marching
to
Canada
,
and
those
good
fellows
walking
across
London
,
that
territory
of
theirs
,
that
little
bit
of
carpet
,
Mayfair
.
And
they
went
further
and
further
from
her
,
being
attached
to
her
by
a
thin
thread
(
since
they
had
lunched
with
her
)
which
would
stretch
and
stretch
,
get
thinner
and
thinner
as
they
walked
across
London
;
as
if
one
's
friends
were
attached
to
one
's
body
,
after
lunching
with
them
,
by
a
thin
thread
,
which
(
as
she
dozed
there
)
became
hazy
with
the
sound
of
bells
,
striking
the
hour
or
ringing
to
service
,
as
a
single
spider
's
thread
is
blotted
with
rain-drops
,
and
,
burdened
,
sags
down
.
So
she
slept
.
