Full text: Mrs. Dalloway

which Peter hardly knew now, all to come about her 
and beat off the enemy. 
“Well, and what’s happened to you?” she said. So 
before a battle begins, the horses paw the ground; toss 
their heads; the light shines on their flanks; their necks 
curve. So Peter Walsh and Clarissa, sitting side by side 
on the blue sofa, challenged each other. His powers 
chafed and tossed in him. He assembled from different 
quarters all sorts of things; praise; his career at Oxford; 
his marriage, which she knew nothing whatever about; 
how he had loved; and altogether done his job. 
“Millions of things!” he exclaimed, and, urged by 
the assembly of powers which were now charging this 
way and that and giving him the feeling at once 
frightening and extremely exhilarating of being rushed 
through the air on the shoulders of people he could no 
longer see, he raised his hands to his forehead. 
Clarissa sat very upright; drew in her breath. 
“I am in love,” he said, not to her however, but to 
some one raised up in the dark so that you could not 
touch her but must lay your garland down on the grass 
in the dark. 
“In love,” he repeated, now speaking rather dryly 
to Clarissa Dalloway; “in love with a girl in India.” 
He had deposited his garland. Clarissa could make 
what she would of it. 
“In love!” she said. That he at his age should be 
sucked under in his little bow-tie by that monster! And 
there’s no flesh on his neck; his hands are red; and he’s 
six months older than I am! her eye flashed back to her; 
but in her heart she felt, all the same; he is in love. He 
has that, she felt; he is in love. - 
But the indomitable egotism which for ever rides 
down the hosts opposed to it, the river which says on, 

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