Full text: Mrs. Dalloway

MRS. DALLOWAY 
“I met Clarissa in the Park this morning,” said Hugh 
Whitbread, diving into the casserole, anxious to pay 
himself this little tribute, for he had only to come to 
London and he met everybody at once; but greedy, one 
of the greediest men she had ever known, Milly Brush 
thought, who observed men with unflinching rectitude, 
and was capable of everlasting devotion, to her own sex 
in particular, being knobbed, scraped, angular, and 
entirely without feminine charm. 
“D’you know who’s in town?” said Lady Bruton, 
suddenly bethinking her. “Our old friend, Peter 
Walsh.” 
They all smiled. Peter Walsh! And Mr. Dalloway 
was genuinely glad, Milly Brush thought; and Mr. 
Whitbread thought only of his chicken. 
Peter Walsh! All three, Lady Bruton, Hugh Whit- 
bread, and Richard Dalloway, remembered the same 
thing—how passionately Peter had been in love; been 
rejected; gone to India; come a cropper; made a mess 
of things; and Richard Dalloway had a very great 
liking for the dear old fellow too. Milly Brush saw that; 
saw a depth in the brown of his eyes; saw him hesitate; 
consider; which interested her, as Mr. Dalloway always 
interested her, for what was he thinking, she wondered, 
about Peter Walsh? 
That Peter Walsh had been in love with Clarissa; 
that he would go back directly after lunch and find 
Clarissa; that he would tell her, in so many words, that 
he loved her. Yes, he would say that. 
Milly Brush once might almost have fallen in love 
with these silences; and Mr. Dalloway was always so 
dependable; such a gentleman too. Now, being forty, 
Lady Bruton had only to nod, or turn her head a little 
abruptly, and Milly Brush took the signal, however 
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