Full text: Mrs. Dalloway

MRS. DALLOWAY 
called her (she had cried over it in her bedroom), she 
had the makings of the perfect hostess, he said. 
So she would still find herself arguing in St. James's 
Park, still making out that she had been right—and she 
had too—not to marry him. For in marriage a little 
licence, a little independence there must be between 
people living together day in day out in the same 
house; which Richard gave her, and she him. (Where 
was he this morning, for instance? Some committee, 
she never asked what.) But with Peter everything had 
to be shared; everything gone into. And it was in- 
tolerable, and when it came to that scene in the little 
garden by the fountain, she had to break with him or 
they would have been destroyed, both of them ruined, 
she was convinced; though she had borne about her for 
years like an arrow sticking in her heart the grief, the 
anguish: and then the horror of the moment when 
some one told her at a concert that he had married a 
_woman met on the boat going to India! Never should 
she forget all that. Cold, heartless, a prude, he called 
her. Never could she understand how he cared. But 
those Indian women did presumably—silly, pretty, 
flimsy nincompoops. And she wasted her pity. For he 
was quite happy, he assured her—perfectly happy, 
though he had never done a thing that they talked of; 
his whole life had been a failure. It made her angry 
still. 
She had reached the Park gates. She stood for a 
moment, looking at the omnibuses in Piccadilly. 
She would not say of any one in the world now that 
they were this or were that. She felt very young; at the 
same time unspeakably aged. She sliced like a knife 
through everything; at the same time was outside, look- 
ing on. She had a perpetual sense, as she watched the 
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