Full text: Mrs. Dalloway

MRS. DALLOWAY 
taxicabs, of being out, out, far out to sea and alone; she 
always had the feeling that it was very, very dangerous 
to live even one day. Not that she thought herself 
clever, or much out of the ordinary. How she had got 
through life on the few twigs of knowledge Fraulein 
Daniels gave them she could not think. She knew no- 
thing; no language, no history; she scarcely read a book 
now, except memoirs in bed; and yet to her it was ab- 
solutely absorbing; all this; the cabs passing; and she 
would not say of Peter, she would not say of herself, I 
am this, I am that. 
Her only gift was knowing people almost by instinct, 
she thought, walking on. Ifyou put her in a room with 
some one, up went her back like a cat’s; or she purred. 
Devonshire House, Bath House, the house with the 
china cockatoo, she had seen them all lit up once; and 
remembered Sylvia, Fred, Sally Seton—such hosts of 
people; and dancing all night; and the waggons plod- 
ding past to market; and driving home across the Park. 
She remembered once throwing a shilling into the 
Serpentine. But every one remembered; what she loved 
was this, here, now, in front of her; the fat lady in the 
cab. Did it matter then, she asked herself, walking 
towards Bond Street, did it matter that she must in- 
evitably cease completely; all this must go on without 
her; did she resent it; or did it not become consoling to 
believe that death ended absolutely ? but that somehow 
in the streets of London, on the ebb and flow of things, 
here, there, she survived, Peter survived, lived in each 
other, she being part, she was positive, of the trees at 
home; of the house there, ugly, rambling all to bits and 
pieces as it was; part of people she had never met; being 
laid out like a mist between the people she knew best, 
who lifted her on their branches as she had seen the 
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