Full text: Mrs. Dalloway

Mrs. Hugh sometimes gave the show away. She was 
one of those obscure mouse-like little women who 
admire big men. She was almost negligible. Then sud- 
denly she would say something quite unexpected— 
something sharp. She had the relics of the grand 
manner, perhaps. The steam coal was a little too 
strong for her—it made the atmosphere thick. And so 
there they lived, with their linen cupboards and their 
old masters and their pillow-cases fringed with real 
lace, at the rate of five or ten thousand a year presum- 
ably, while he, who was two years older than Hugh, 
cadged for a job. 
At fifty-three he had to come and ask them to put 
him into some secretary’s office, to find him some 
usher’s job teaching little boys Latin, at the beck and 
call of some mandarin in an office, something that 
brought in five hundred a year; for if he married Daisy, 
even with his pension, they could never do on less. 
Whitbread could do it presumably; or Dalloway. He 
didn’t mind what he asked Dalloway. He was a 
thorough good sort; a bit limited; a bit thick in the 
head; yes; but a thorough good sort. Whatever he took 
up he did in the same matter-of-fact sensible way; 
without a touch of imagination, without a spark of 
brilliancy, but with the inexplicable niceness of his type. 
He ought to have been a country gentleman—he was 
wasted on politics. He was at his best out of doors, with 
horses and dogs—how good he was, for instance, when 
that great shaggy dog of Clarissa’s got caught in a trap 
and had its paw half torn off, and Clarissa turned faint 
and Dalloway did the whole thing; bandaged, made 
splints; told Clarissa not to be a fool. That was what 
she liked him for, perhaps—that was what she needed. 
“Now, my dear, don’t be a fool. Hold this—fetch 

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