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- Вирджиния Вульф
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- Миссис Дэллоуэй
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- Стр. 91/96
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It
was
due
to
Richard
;
she
had
never
been
so
happy
.
Nothing
could
be
slow
enough
;
nothing
last
too
long
.
No
pleasure
could
equal
,
she
thought
,
straightening
the
chairs
,
pushing
in
one
book
on
the
shelf
,
this
having
done
with
the
triumphs
of
youth
,
lost
herself
in
the
process
of
living
,
to
find
it
,
with
a
shock
of
delight
,
as
the
sun
rose
,
as
the
day
sank
.
Many
a
time
had
she
gone
,
at
Bourton
when
they
were
all
talking
,
to
look
at
the
sky
;
or
seen
it
between
people
's
shoulders
at
dinner
;
seen
it
in
London
when
she
could
not
sleep
.
She
walked
to
the
window
.
It
held
,
foolish
as
the
idea
was
,
something
of
her
own
in
it
,
this
country
sky
,
this
sky
above
Westminster
.
She
parted
the
curtains
;
she
looked
.
Oh
,
but
how
surprising
!
--
in
the
room
opposite
the
old
lady
stared
straight
at
her
!
She
was
going
to
bed
.
And
the
sky
.
It
will
be
a
solemn
sky
,
she
had
thought
,
it
will
be
a
dusky
sky
,
turning
away
its
cheek
in
beauty
.
But
there
it
was
--
ashen
pale
,
raced
over
quickly
by
tapering
vast
clouds
.
It
was
new
to
her
.
The
wind
must
have
risen
.
She
was
going
to
bed
,
in
the
room
opposite
.
It
was
fascinating
to
watch
her
,
moving
about
,
that
old
lady
,
crossing
the
room
,
coming
to
the
window
.
Could
she
see
her
?
It
was
fascinating
,
with
people
still
laughing
and
shouting
in
the
drawing-room
,
to
watch
that
old
woman
,
quite
quietly
,
going
to
bed
.
She
pulled
the
blind
now
.
The
clock
began
striking
.
The
young
man
had
killed
himself
;
but
she
did
not
pity
him
;
with
the
clock
striking
the
hour
,
one
,
two
,
three
,
she
did
not
pity
him
,
with
all
this
going
on
.
There
!
the
old
lady
had
put
out
her
light
!
the
whole
house
was
dark
now
with
this
going
on
,
she
repeated
,
and
the
words
came
to
her
,
Fear
no
more
the
heat
of
the
sun
.
She
must
go
back
to
them
.
But
what
an
extraordinary
night
!
She
felt
somehow
very
like
him
--
the
young
man
who
had
killed
himself
.
She
felt
glad
that
he
had
done
it
;
thrown
it
away
.
The
clock
was
striking
.
The
leaden
circles
dissolved
in
the
air
.
He
made
her
feel
the
beauty
;
made
her
feel
the
fun
.
But
she
must
go
back
.
She
must
assemble
.
She
must
find
Sally
and
Peter
.
And
she
came
in
from
the
little
room
.
"
But
where
is
Clarissa
?
"
said
Peter
.
He
was
sitting
on
the
sofa
with
Sally
.
(
After
all
these
years
he
really
could
not
call
her
"
Lady
Rosseter
.
"
)
"
Where
's
the
woman
gone
to
?
"
he
asked
.
"
Where
's
Clarissa
?
"
Sally
supposed
,
and
so
did
Peter
for
the
matter
of
that
,
that
there
were
people
of
importance
,
politicians
,
whom
neither
of
them
knew
unless
by
sight
in
the
picture
papers
,
whom
Clarissa
had
to
be
nice
to
,
had
to
talk
to
.
She
was
with
them
.
Yet
there
was
Richard
Dalloway
not
in
the
Cabinet
.
He
had
n't
been
a
success
,
Sally
supposed
?
For
herself
,
she
scarcely
ever
read
the
papers
.
She
sometimes
saw
his
name
mentioned
.
But
then
--
well
,
she
lived
a
very
solitary
life
,
in
the
wilds
,
Clarissa
would
say
,
among
great
merchants
,
great
manufacturers
,
men
,
after
all
,
who
did
things
.
She
had
done
things
too
!
"
I
have
five
sons
!
"
she
told
him
.
Lord
,
Lord
,
what
a
change
had
come
over
her
!
the
softness
of
motherhood
;
its
egotism
too
.
Last
time
they
met
,
Peter
remembered
,
had
been
among
the
cauliflowers
in
the
moonlight
,
the
leaves
"
like
rough
bronze
"
she
had
said
,
with
her
literary
turn
;
and
she
had
picked
a
rose
.
She
had
marched
him
up
and
down
that
awful
night
,
after
the
scene
by
the
fountain
;
he
was
to
catch
the
midnight
train
.
Heavens
,
he
had
wept
!
That
was
his
old
trick
,
opening
a
pocket-knife
,
thought
Sally
,
always
opening
and
shutting
a
knife
when
he
got
excited
.
They
had
been
very
,
very
intimate
,
she
and
Peter
Walsh
,
when
he
was
in
love
with
Clarissa
,
and
there
was
that
dreadful
,
ridiculous
scene
over
Richard
Dalloway
at
lunch
.
She
had
called
Richard
"
Wickham
.
"
Why
not
call
Richard
"
Wickham
"
?
Clarissa
had
flared
up
!
and
indeed
they
had
never
seen
each
other
since
,
she
and
Clarissa
,
not
more
than
half
a
dozen
times
perhaps
in
the
last
ten
years
.
And
Peter
Walsh
had
gone
off
to
India
,
and
she
had
heard
vaguely
that
he
had
made
an
unhappy
marriage
,
and
she
did
n't
know
whether
he
had
any
children
,
and
she
could
n't
ask
him
,
for
he
had
changed
.
He
was
rather
shrivelled-looking
,
but
kinder
,
she
felt
,
and
she
had
a
real
affection
for
him
,
for
he
was
connected
with
her
youth
,
and
she
still
had
a
little
Emily
Brontë
he
had
given
her
,
and
he
was
to
write
,
surely
?
In
those
days
he
was
to
write
.
