Full text: Mrs. Dalloway

MRS. DALLOWAY 
But it was delicious to hear her say that—my dear 
Peter! Indeed, it was all so delicious—the silver, the 
chairs; all so delicious! 
Why wouldn’t she ask him to her party? he asked. 
Now of course, thought Clarissa, he’s enchanting! 
perfectly enchanting! Now I remember how impos- 
sible it was ever to make up my mind—and why did I 
make up my mind—not to marry him, she wondered, 
that awful summer? 
“But it’s so extraordinary that you should have come 
this morning!” she cried, putting her hands, one on top 
of another, down on her dress. 
“Do you remember,” she said, “how the blinds used 
to flap at Bourton?” 
“They did,” he said; and he remembered break- 
fasting alone, very awkwardly, with her father; who 
had died; and he had not written to Clarissa. But he 
had never got on well with old Parry, that querulous, 
weak-kneed old man, Clarissa’s father, Justin Parry. 
“I often wish I’d got on better with your father,” he 
said. 
“But he never liked any one who—our friends,” said 
Clarissa; and could have bitten her tongue for thus 
reminding Peter that he had wanted to marry her. 
Of course I did, thought Peter; it almost broke my 
heart too, he thought; and was overcome with his own 
grief, which rose like a moon looked at from a terrace, 
ghastly beautiful with light from the sunken day. I was 
more unhappy than I’ve ever been since, he thought. 
And as if in truth he were sitting there on the terrace 
he edged a little towards Clarissa; put his hand out; 
raised it; let it fall. There above them it hung, that 
moon. She too seemed to be sitting with him on the 
terrace, in the moonlight. 
re 
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