MRS. DALLOWAY 
spirit, disembodied, ghostly—why not enter in? he 
thought, and while he hesitated out flew the aeroplane 
over Ludgate Circus. 
It was strange; it was still. Not a sound was to be 
heard above the traffic. Unguided it seemed; sped of 
its own free will. And now, curving up and up, straight 
up, like something mounting in ecstasy, in pure delight, 
out from behind poured white smoke looping, writing a 
T, and O, an F. 
“What are they looking at?” said Clarissa Dalloway 
to the maid who opened her door. 
The hall of the house was cool as a vault. Mrs. 
Dalloway raised her hand to her eyes, and, as the maid 
shut the door to, and she heard the swish of Lucy’s 
skirts, she felt like a nun who has left the world and feels 
fold round her the familiar veils and the response to old 
devotions. The cook whistled in the kitchen. She heard 
the click of the typewriter. It was her life, and, bending 
her head over the hall table, she bowed beneath the 
influence, felt blessed and purified, saying to herself, as 
she took the pad with the telephone message on it, how 
moments like this are buds on the tree of life, flowers of 
darkness they are, she thought (as if some lovely rose 
had blossomed for her eyes only); not for a moment did 
she believe in God; but all the more, she thought, 
taking up the pad, must one repay in daily life to ser- 
vants, yes, to dogs and canaries, above all to Richard 
her husband, who was the foundation of it—of the gay 
sounds, of the green lights, of the cook even whistling, 
for Mrs. Walker was Irish and whistled all day long— 
one must pay back from this secret deposit of exquisite 
moments, she thought, lifting the pad, while Lucy stood 
by her, trying to explain how 
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