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- Вирджиния Вульф
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- Стр. 43/72
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she
read
and
turned
the
page
,
swinging
herself
,
zigzagging
this
way
and
that
,
from
one
line
to
another
as
from
one
branch
to
another
,
from
one
red
and
white
flower
to
another
,
until
a
little
sound
roused
her
--
her
husband
slapping
his
thighs
.
Their
eyes
met
for
a
second
;
but
they
did
not
want
to
speak
to
each
other
.
They
had
nothing
to
say
,
but
something
seemed
,
nevertheless
,
to
go
from
him
to
her
.
It
was
the
life
,
it
was
the
power
of
it
,
it
was
the
tremendous
humour
,
she
knew
,
that
made
him
slap
his
thighs
.
Do
n't
interrupt
me
,
he
seemed
to
be
saying
,
do
n't
say
anything
;
just
sit
there
.
And
he
went
on
reading
.
His
lips
twitched
.
It
filled
him
.
It
fortified
him
.
He
clean
forgot
all
the
little
rubs
and
digs
of
the
evening
,
and
how
it
bored
him
unutterably
to
sit
still
while
people
ate
and
drank
interminably
,
and
his
being
so
irritable
with
his
wife
and
so
touchy
and
minding
when
they
passed
his
books
over
as
if
they
did
n't
exist
at
all
.
But
now
,
he
felt
,
it
did
n't
matter
a
damn
who
reached
Z
(
if
thought
ran
like
an
alphabet
from
A
to
Z
)
.
Somebody
would
reach
it
--
if
not
he
,
then
another
.
This
man
's
strength
and
sanity
,
his
feeling
for
straight
forward
simple
things
,
these
fishermen
,
the
poor
old
crazed
creature
in
Mucklebackit
's
cottage
made
him
feel
so
vigorous
,
so
relieved
of
something
that
he
felt
roused
and
triumphant
and
could
not
choke
back
his
tears
.
Raising
the
book
a
little
to
hide
his
face
,
he
let
them
fall
and
shook
his
head
from
side
to
side
and
forgot
himself
completely
(
but
not
one
or
two
reflections
about
morality
and
French
novels
and
English
novels
and
Scott
's
hands
being
tied
but
his
view
perhaps
being
as
true
as
the
other
view
)
,
forgot
his
own
bothers
and
failures
completely
in
poor
Steenie
's
drowning
and
Mucklebackit
's
sorrow
(
that
was
Scott
at
his
best
)
and
the
astonishing
delight
and
feeling
of
vigour
that
it
gave
him
.
Well
,
let
them
improve
upon
that
,
he
thought
as
he
finished
the
chapter
.
He
felt
that
he
had
been
arguing
with
somebody
,
and
had
got
the
better
of
him
.
They
could
not
improve
upon
that
,
whatever
they
might
say
;
and
his
own
position
became
more
secure
.
The
lovers
were
fiddlesticks
,
he
thought
,
collecting
it
all
in
his
mind
again
.
That
's
fiddlesticks
,
that
's
first-rate
,
he
thought
,
putting
one
thing
beside
another
.
But
he
must
read
it
again
.
He
could
not
remember
the
whole
shape
of
the
thing
.
He
had
to
keep
his
judgement
in
suspense
.
So
he
returned
to
the
other
thought
--
if
young
men
did
not
care
for
this
,
naturally
they
did
not
care
for
him
either
.
One
ought
not
to
complain
,
thought
Mr.
Ramsay
,
trying
to
stifle
his
desire
to
complain
to
his
wife
that
young
men
did
not
admire
him
.
But
he
was
determined
;
he
would
not
bother
her
again
.
Here
he
looked
at
her
reading
.
She
looked
very
peaceful
,
reading
.
He
liked
to
think
that
every
one
had
taken
themselves
off
and
that
he
and
she
were
alone
.
The
whole
of
life
did
not
consist
in
going
to
bed
with
a
woman
,
he
thought
,
returning
to
Scott
and
Balzac
,
to
the
English
novel
and
the
French
novel
.
Mrs.
Ramsay
raised
her
head
and
like
a
person
in
a
light
sleep
seemed
to
say
that
if
he
wanted
her
to
wake
she
would
,
she
really
would
,
but
otherwise
,
might
she
go
on
sleeping
,
just
a
little
longer
,
just
a
little
longer
?
She
was
climbing
up
those
branches
,
this
way
and
that
,
laying
hands
on
one
flower
and
then
another
.
"
Nor
praise
the
deep
vermilion
in
the
rose
,
"
she
read
,
and
so
reading
she
was
ascending
,
she
felt
,
on
to
the
top
,
on
to
the
summit
.
How
satisfying
!
How
restful
!
All
the
odds
and
ends
of
the
day
stuck
to
this
magnet
;
her
mind
felt
swept
,
felt
clean
.
And
then
there
it
was
,
suddenly
entire
;
she
held
it
in
her
hands
,
beautiful
and
reasonable
,
clear
and
complete
,
here
--
the
sonnet
.
But
she
was
becoming
conscious
of
her
husband
looking
at
her
.
He
was
smiling
at
her
,
quizzically
,
as
if
he
were
ridiculing
her
gently
for
being
asleep
in
broad
daylight
,
but
at
the
same
time
he
was
thinking
,
Go
on
reading
.
You
do
n't
look
sad
now
,
he
thought
.
And
he
wondered
what
she
was
reading
,
and
exaggerated
her
ignorance
,
her
simplicity
,
for
he
liked
to
think
that
she
was
not
clever
,
not
book-learned
at
all
.
He
wondered
if
she
understood
what
she
was
reading
.
Probably
not
,
he
thought
.
She
was
astonishingly
beautiful
.
Her
beauty
seemed
to
him
,
if
that
were
possible
,
to
increase
Yet
seem
'd
it
winter
still
,
and
,
you
away
,
