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"
Do
n't
quite
forget
me
,
"
said
Doris
Kilman
;
her
voice
quivered
.
Right
away
to
the
end
of
the
field
the
dumb
creature
galloped
in
terror
.
The
great
hand
opened
and
shut
.
Elizabeth
turned
her
head
.
The
waitress
came
.
One
had
to
pay
at
the
desk
,
Elizabeth
said
,
and
went
off
,
drawing
out
,
so
Miss
Kilman
felt
,
the
very
entrails
in
her
body
,
stretching
them
as
she
crossed
the
room
,
and
then
,
with
a
final
twist
,
bowing
her
head
very
politely
,
she
went
.
She
had
gone
.
Miss
Kilman
sat
at
the
marble
table
among
the
éclairs
,
stricken
once
,
twice
,
thrice
by
shocks
of
suffering
.
She
had
gone
.
Mrs.
Dalloway
had
triumphed
.
Elizabeth
had
gone
.
Beauty
had
gone
,
youth
had
gone
.
So
she
sat
.
She
got
up
,
blundered
off
among
the
little
tables
,
rocking
slightly
from
side
to
side
,
and
somebody
came
after
her
with
her
petticoat
,
and
she
lost
her
way
,
and
was
hemmed
in
by
trunks
specially
prepared
for
taking
to
India
;
next
got
among
the
accouchement
sets
,
and
baby
linen
;
through
all
the
commodities
of
the
world
,
perishable
and
permanent
,
hams
,
drugs
,
flowers
,
stationery
,
variously
smelling
,
now
sweet
,
now
sour
she
lurched
;
saw
herself
thus
lurching
with
her
hat
askew
,
very
red
in
the
face
,
full
length
in
a
looking-glass
;
and
at
last
came
out
into
the
street
.
The
tower
of
Westminster
Cathedral
rose
in
front
of
her
,
the
habitation
of
God
.
In
the
midst
of
the
traffic
,
there
was
the
habitation
of
God
.
Doggedly
she
set
off
with
her
parcel
to
that
other
sanctuary
,
the
Abbey
,
where
,
raising
her
hands
in
a
tent
before
her
face
,
she
sat
beside
those
driven
into
shelter
too
;
the
variously
assorted
worshippers
,
now
divested
of
social
rank
,
almost
of
sex
,
as
they
raised
their
hands
before
their
faces
;
but
once
they
removed
them
,
instantly
reverent
,
middle
class
,
English
men
and
women
,
some
of
them
desirous
of
seeing
the
wax
works
.
But
Miss
Kilman
held
her
tent
before
her
face
.
Now
she
was
deserted
;
now
rejoined
.
New
worshippers
came
in
from
the
street
to
replace
the
strollers
,
and
still
,
as
people
gazed
round
and
shuffled
past
the
tomb
of
the
Unknown
Warrior
,
still
she
barred
her
eyes
with
her
fingers
and
tried
in
this
double
darkness
,
for
the
light
in
the
Abbey
was
bodiless
,
to
aspire
above
the
vanities
,
the
desires
,
the
commodities
,
to
rid
herself
both
of
hatred
and
of
love
.
Her
hands
twitched
.
She
seemed
to
struggle
.
Yet
to
others
God
was
accessible
and
the
path
to
Him
smooth
.
Mr.
Fletcher
,
retired
,
of
the
Treasury
,
Mrs.
Gorham
,
widow
of
the
famous
K.C.
,
approached
Him
simply
,
and
having
done
their
praying
,
leant
back
,
enjoyed
the
music
(
the
organ
pealed
sweetly
)
,
and
saw
Miss
Kilman
at
the
end
of
the
row
,
praying
,
praying
,
and
,
being
still
on
the
threshold
of
their
underworld
,
thought
of
her
sympathetically
as
a
soul
haunting
the
same
territory
;
a
soul
cut
out
of
immaterial
substance
;
not
a
woman
,
a
soul
.
But
Mr.
Fletcher
had
to
go
.
He
had
to
pass
her
,
and
being
himself
neat
as
a
new
pin
,
could
not
help
being
a
little
distressed
by
the
poor
lady
's
disorder
;
her
hair
down
;
her
parcel
on
the
floor
.
She
did
not
at
once
let
him
pass
.
But
,
as
he
stood
gazing
about
him
,
at
the
white
marbles
,
grey
window
panes
,
and
accumulated
treasures
(
for
he
was
extremely
proud
of
the
Abbey
)
,
her
largeness
,
robustness
,
and
power
as
she
sat
there
shifting
her
knees
from
time
to
time
(
it
was
so
rough
the
approach
to
her
God
--
so
tough
her
desires
)
impressed
him
,
as
they
had
impressed
Mrs.
Dalloway
(
she
could
not
get
the
thought
of
her
out
of
her
mind
that
afternoon
)
,
the
Rev.
