MRS. DALLOWAY
the night; one of those spectres who stand astride us and
suck up half our life-blood, dominators and tyrants; for
no doubt with another throw of the dice, had the black
been uppermost and not the white, she would have
loved Miss Kilman! But not in this world. No.
It rasped her, though, to have stirring about in her
this brutal monster! to hear twigs cracking and feel
hooves planted down in the depths of that leaf-encum-
bered forest, the soul; never to be content quite, or
quite secure, for at any moment the brute would be
stirring, this hatred, which, especially since her illness,
had power to make her feel scraped, hurt in her spine;
gave her physical pain, and made all pleasure in beauty,
in friendship, in being well, in being loved and making
her home delightful, rock, quiver, and bend as if indeed
there were a monster grubbing at the roots, as if the
whole panoply of content were nothing but self love!
this hatred!
Nonsense, nonsense! she cried to herself, pushing
through the swing doors of Mulberry’s the florists.
She advanced, light, tall, very upright, to be greeted
at once by button-faced Miss Pym, whose hands were
always bright red, as if they had been stood in cold
water with the flowers.
There were flowers: delphiniums, sweet peas, bunches
of lilac; and carnations, masses of carnations. There
were roses; there were irises. Ah yes—so she breathed
in the earthy-garden sweet smell as she stood talking to
Miss Pym who owed her help, and thought her kind,
for kind she had been years ago; very kind, but she
looked older, this year, turning her head from side to
side among the irises and roses and nodding tufts of
lilac with her eyes half closed, snuffing in, after the
street uproar, the delicious scent, the exquisite coolness.
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