MRS. DALLOWAY 
trees lift the mist, but it spread ever so far, her life, her- 
self. But what was she dreaming as she looked into 
Hatchards’ shop window? What was she trying to re- 
cover? What image of white dawn in the country, as 
she read in the book spread open: 
Fear no more the heat o’ the sun 
Nor the furious winter’s rages. 
This late age of world’s experience had bred in them 
all, all men and women, a well of tears. Tears and 
sorrows; courage and endurance; a perfectly upright 
and stoical bearing. Think, for example, of the woman 
she admired most, Lady Bexborough, opening the 
bazaar. 
There were Jorrocks’ Faunts and jJollities; there were 
Soapy Sponge and Mrs. Asquith’s Memoirs and Big Game 
Shooting in Nigeria, all spread open. Ever so many books 
there were; but none that seemed exactly right to take 
to Evelyn Whitbread in her nursing home. Nothing 
that would serve to amuse her and make that in- 
describably dried-up little woman look, as Clarissa 
came in, just for a moment cordial; before they settled 
down for the usual interminable talk of women’s ail- 
ments. How much she wanted it—that people should 
look pleased as she came in, Clarissa thought and 
turned and walked back towards Bond Street, annoyed, 
because it was silly to have other reasons for doing 
things. Much rather would she have been one of those 
people like Richard who did things for themselves, 
whereas, she thought, waiting to cross, half the time she 
did things not simply, not for themselves; but to make 
people think this or that; perfect idiocy she knew (and 
now the policeman held up his hand) for no one was 
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