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- Вирджиния Вульф
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- Миссис Дэллоуэй
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- Стр. 88/96
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"
Oh
,
perfectly
well
!
"
said
Clarissa
.
(
Lady
Bruton
detested
illness
in
the
wives
of
politicians
.
)
"
And
there
's
Peter
Walsh
!
"
said
Lady
Bruton
(
for
she
could
never
think
of
anything
to
say
to
Clarissa
;
though
she
liked
her
.
She
had
lots
of
fine
qualities
;
but
they
had
nothing
in
common
--
she
and
Clarissa
.
It
might
have
been
better
if
Richard
had
married
a
woman
with
less
charm
,
who
would
have
helped
him
more
in
his
work
.
He
had
lost
his
chance
of
the
Cabinet
)
.
"
There
's
Peter
Walsh
!
"
she
said
,
shaking
hands
with
that
agreeable
sinner
,
that
very
able
fellow
who
should
have
made
a
name
for
himself
but
had
n't
(
always
in
difficulties
with
women
)
,
and
,
of
course
,
old
Miss
Parry
.
Wonderful
old
lady
!
Lady
Bruton
stood
by
Miss
Parry
's
chair
,
a
spectral
grenadier
,
draped
in
black
,
inviting
Peter
Walsh
to
lunch
;
cordial
;
but
without
small
talk
,
remembering
nothing
whatever
about
the
flora
or
fauna
of
India
.
She
had
been
there
,
of
course
;
had
stayed
with
three
Viceroys
;
thought
some
of
the
Indian
civilians
uncommonly
fine
fellows
;
but
what
a
tragedy
it
was
--
the
state
of
India
!
The
Prime
Minister
had
just
been
telling
her
(
old
Miss
Parry
huddled
up
in
her
shawl
,
did
not
care
what
the
Prime
Minister
had
just
been
telling
her
)
,
and
Lady
Bruton
would
like
to
have
Peter
Walsh
's
opinion
,
he
being
fresh
from
the
centre
,
and
she
would
get
Sir
Sampson
to
meet
him
,
for
really
it
prevented
her
from
sleeping
at
night
,
the
folly
of
it
,
the
wickedness
she
might
say
,
being
a
soldier
's
daughter
.
She
was
an
old
woman
now
,
not
good
for
much
.
But
her
house
,
her
servants
,
her
good
friend
Milly
Brush
--
did
he
remember
her
?
--
were
all
there
only
asking
to
be
used
if
--
if
they
could
be
of
help
,
in
short
.
For
she
never
spoke
of
England
,
but
this
isle
of
men
,
this
dear
,
dear
land
,
was
in
her
blood
(
without
reading
Shakespeare
)
,
and
if
ever
a
woman
could
have
worn
the
helmet
and
shot
the
arrow
,
could
have
led
troops
to
attack
,
ruled
with
indomitable
justice
barbarian
hordes
and
lain
under
a
shield
noseless
in
a
church
,
or
made
a
green
grass
mound
on
some
primeval
hillside
,
that
woman
was
Millicent
Bruton
.
Debarred
by
her
sex
and
some
truancy
,
too
,
of
the
logical
faculty
(
she
found
it
impossible
to
write
a
letter
to
the
Times
)
,
she
had
the
thought
of
Empire
always
at
hand
,
and
had
acquired
from
her
association
with
that
armoured
goddess
her
ramrod
bearing
,
her
robustness
of
demeanour
,
so
that
one
could
not
figure
her
even
in
death
parted
from
the
earth
or
roaming
territories
over
which
,
in
some
spiritual
shape
,
the
Union
Jack
had
ceased
to
fly
.
To
be
not
English
even
among
the
dead
--
no
,
no
!
Impossible
!
But
was
it
Lady
Bruton
(
whom
she
used
to
know
)
?
Was
it
Peter
Walsh
grown
grey
?
Lady
Rosseter
asked
herself
(
who
had
been
Sally
Seton
)
.
It
was
old
Miss
Parry
certainly
--
the
old
aunt
who
used
to
be
so
cross
when
she
stayed
at
Bourton
.
Never
should
she
forget
running
along
the
passage
naked
,
and
being
sent
for
by
Miss
Parry
!
And
Clarissa
!
oh
Clarissa
!
Sally
caught
her
by
the
arm
.
Clarissa
stopped
beside
them
.
"
But
I
ca
n't
stay
,
"
she
said
.
"
I
shall
come
later
.
Wait
,
"
she
said
,
looking
at
Peter
and
Sally
.
They
must
wait
,
she
meant
,
until
all
these
people
had
gone
.
"
I
shall
come
back
,
"
she
said
,
looking
at
her
old
friends
,
Sally
and
Peter
,
who
were
shaking
hands
,
and
Sally
,
remembering
the
past
no
doubt
,
was
laughing
.
But
her
voice
was
wrung
of
its
old
ravishing
richness
;
her
eyes
not
aglow
as
they
used
to
be
,
when
she
smoked
cigars
,
when
she
ran
down
the
passage
to
fetch
her
sponge
bag
,
without
a
stitch
of
clothing
on
her
,
and
Ellen
Atkins
asked
,
What
if
the
gentlemen
had
met
her
?
But
everybody
forgave
her
.
She
stole
a
chicken
from
the
larder
because
she
was
hungry
in
the
night
;
she
smoked
cigars
in
her
bedroom
;
she
left
a
priceless
book
in
the
punt
.
But
everybody
adored
her
(
except
perhaps
Papa
)
.
It
was
her
warmth
;
her
vitality
--
she
would
paint
,
she
would
write
.
Old
women
in
the
village
never
to
this
day
forgot
to
ask
after
"
your
friend
in
the
red
cloak
who
seemed
so
bright
.
"
She
accused
Hugh
Whitbread
,
of
all
people
(
and
there
he
was
,
her
old
friend
Hugh
,
talking
to
the
Portuguese
Ambassador
)
,
of
kissing
her
in
the
smoking-room
to
punish
her
for
saying
that
women
should
have
votes
.
Vulgar
men
did
,
she
said
.
And
Clarissa
remembered
having
to
persuade
her
not
to
denounce
him
at
family
prayers
--
which
she
was
capable
of
doing
with
her
daring
,
her
recklessness
,
her
melodramatic
love
of
being
the
centre
of
everything
and
creating
scenes
,
and
it
was
bound
,
Clarissa
used
to
think
,
to
end
in
some
awful
tragedy
;
her
death
;
her
martyrdom
;
instead
of
which
she
had
married
,
quite
unexpectedly
,
a
bald
man
with
a
large
buttonhole
who
owned
,
it
was
said
,
cotton
mills
at
Manchester
.
