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- Вирджиния Вульф
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- Миссис Дэллоуэй
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- Стр. 75/96
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In
London
too
,
there
they
sat
,
and
,
half
dreaming
,
came
to
her
through
the
bedroom
door
,
rain
falling
,
whisperings
,
stirrings
among
dry
corn
,
the
caress
of
the
sea
,
as
it
seemed
to
her
,
hollowing
them
in
its
arched
shell
and
murmuring
to
her
laid
on
shore
,
strewn
she
felt
,
like
flying
flowers
over
some
tomb
.
"
He
is
dead
,
"
she
said
,
smiling
at
the
poor
old
woman
who
guarded
her
with
her
honest
light-blue
eyes
fixed
on
the
door
.
(
They
would
n't
bring
him
in
here
,
would
they
?
)
But
Mrs.
Filmer
pooh-poohed
.
Oh
no
,
oh
no
!
They
were
carrying
him
away
now
.
Ought
she
not
to
be
told
?
Married
people
ought
to
be
together
,
Mrs.
Filmer
thought
.
But
they
must
do
as
the
doctor
said
.
"
Let
her
sleep
,
"
said
Dr.
Holmes
,
feeling
her
pulse
.
She
saw
the
large
outline
of
his
body
standing
dark
against
the
window
.
So
that
was
Dr.
Holmes
.
One
of
the
triumphs
of
civilisation
,
Peter
Walsh
thought
.
It
is
one
of
the
triumphs
of
civilisation
,
as
the
light
high
bell
of
the
ambulance
sounded
.
Swiftly
,
cleanly
the
ambulance
sped
to
the
hospital
,
having
picked
up
instantly
,
humanely
,
some
poor
devil
;
some
one
hit
on
the
head
,
struck
down
by
disease
,
knocked
over
perhaps
a
minute
or
so
ago
at
one
of
these
crossings
,
as
might
happen
to
oneself
.
That
was
civilisation
.
It
struck
him
coming
back
from
the
East
--
the
efficiency
,
the
organisation
,
the
communal
spirit
of
London
.
Every
cart
or
carriage
of
its
own
accord
drew
aside
to
let
the
ambulance
pass
.
Perhaps
it
was
morbid
;
or
was
it
not
touching
rather
,
the
respect
which
they
showed
this
ambulance
with
its
victim
inside
--
busy
men
hurrying
home
yet
instantly
bethinking
them
as
it
passed
of
some
wife
;
or
presumably
how
easily
it
might
have
been
them
there
,
stretched
on
a
shelf
with
a
doctor
and
a
nurse
...
Ah
,
but
thinking
became
morbid
,
sentimental
,
directly
one
began
conjuring
up
doctors
,
dead
bodies
;
a
little
glow
of
pleasure
,
a
sort
of
lust
too
over
the
visual
impression
warned
one
not
to
go
on
with
that
sort
of
thing
any
more
--
fatal
to
art
,
fatal
to
friendship
.
True
.
And
yet
,
thought
Peter
Walsh
,
as
the
ambulance
turned
the
corner
though
the
light
high
bell
could
be
heard
down
the
next
street
and
still
farther
as
it
crossed
the
Tottenham
Court
Road
,
chiming
constantly
,
it
is
the
privilege
of
loneliness
;
in
privacy
one
may
do
as
one
chooses
.
One
might
weep
if
no
one
saw
.
It
had
been
his
undoing
--
this
susceptibility
--
in
Anglo-Indian
society
;
not
weeping
at
the
right
time
,
or
laughing
either
.
I
have
that
in
me
,
he
thought
standing
by
the
pillar-box
,
which
could
now
dissolve
in
tears
.
Why
,
Heaven
knows
.
Beauty
of
some
sort
probably
,
and
the
weight
of
the
day
,
which
beginning
with
that
visit
to
Clarissa
had
exhausted
him
with
its
heat
,
its
intensity
,
and
the
drip
,
drip
,
of
one
impression
after
another
down
into
that
cellar
where
they
stood
,
deep
,
dark
,
and
no
one
would
ever
know
.
Partly
for
that
reason
,
its
secrecy
,
complete
and
inviolable
,
he
had
found
life
like
an
unknown
garden
,
full
of
turns
and
corners
,
surprising
,
yes
;
really
it
took
one
's
breath
away
,
these
moments
;
there
coming
to
him
by
the
pillar-box
opposite
the
British
Museum
one
of
them
,
a
moment
,
in
which
things
came
together
;
this
ambulance
;
and
life
and
death
.
It
was
as
if
he
were
sucked
up
to
some
very
high
roof
by
that
rush
of
emotion
and
the
rest
of
him
,
like
a
white
shell-sprinkled
beach
,
left
bare
.
It
had
been
his
undoing
in
Anglo-Indian
society
--
this
susceptibility
.
Clarissa
once
,
going
on
top
of
an
omnibus
with
him
somewhere
,
Clarissa
superficially
at
least
,
so
easily
moved
,
now
in
despair
,
now
in
the
best
of
spirits
,
all
aquiver
in
those
days
and
such
good
company
,
spotting
queer
little
scenes
,
names
,
people
from
the
top
of
a
bus
,
for
they
used
to
explore
London
and
bring
back
bags
full
of
treasures
from
the
Caledonian
market
--
Clarissa
had
a
theory
in
those
days
--
they
had
heaps
of
theories
,
always
theories
,
as
young
people
have
.
It
was
to
explain
the
feeling
they
had
of
dissatisfaction
;
not
knowing
people
;
not
being
known
.
For
how
could
they
know
each
other
?
You
met
every
day
;
then
not
for
six
months
,
or
years
.
It
was
unsatisfactory
,
they
agreed
,
how
little
one
knew
people
.
But
she
said
,
sitting
on
the
bus
going
up
Shaftesbury
Avenue
,
she
felt
herself
everywhere
;
not
"
here
,
here
,
here
"
;
and
she
tapped
the
back
of
the
seat
;
but
everywhere
.
She
waved
her
hand
,
going
up
Shaftesbury
Avenue
.
She
was
all
that
.
So
that
to
know
her
,
or
any
one
,
one
must
seek
out
the
people
who
completed
them
;
even
the
places
.
Odd
affinities
she
had
with
people
she
had
never
spoken
to
,
some
woman
in
the
street
,
some
man
behind
a
counter
--
even
trees
,
or
barns
.
It
ended
in
a
transcendental
theory
which
,
with
her
horror
of
death
,
allowed
her
to
believe
,
or
say
that
she
believed
(
for
all
her
scepticism
)
,
that
since
our
apparitions
,
the
part
of
us
which
appears
,
are
so
momentary
compared
with
the
other
,
the
unseen
part
of
us
,
which
spreads
wide
,
the
unseen
might
survive
,
be
recovered
somehow
attached
to
this
person
or
that
,
or
even
haunting
certain
places
after
death
...
perhaps
--
perhaps
.
Looking
back
over
that
long
friendship
of
almost
thirty
years
her
theory
worked
to
this
extent
.
Brief
,
broken
,
often
painful
as
their
actual
meetings
had
been
what
with
his
absences
and
interruptions
(
this
morning
,
for
instance
,
in
came
Elizabeth
,
like
a
long-legged
colt
,
handsome
,
dumb
,
just
as
he
was
beginning
to
talk
to
Clarissa
)
the
effect
of
them
on
his
life
was
immeasurable
.
There
was
a
mystery
about
it
.
You
were
given
a
sharp
,
acute
,
uncomfortable
grain
--
the
actual
meeting
;
horribly
painful
as
often
as
not
;
yet
in
absence
,
in
the
most
unlikely
places
,
it
would
flower
out
,
open
,
shed
its
scent
,
let
you
touch
,
taste
,
look
about
you
,
get
the
whole
feel
of
it
and
understanding
,
after
years
of
lying
lost
.
Thus
she
had
come
to
him
;
on
board
ship
;
in
the
Himalayas
;
suggested
by
the
oddest
things
(
so
Sally
Seton
,
generous
,
enthusiastic
goose
!
thought
of
HIM
when
she
saw
blue
hydrangeas
)
.
She
had
influenced
him
more
than
any
person
he
had
ever
known
.
And
always
in
this
way
coming
before
him
without
his
wishing
it
,
cool
,
lady-like
,
critical
;
or
ravishing
,
romantic
,
recalling
some
field
or
English
harvest
.
He
saw
her
most
often
in
the
country
,
not
in
London
.
One
scene
after
another
at
Bourton
...
