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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