Full text: Mrs. Dalloway

no patience with women who were afraid of water. 
It swept and fell. Her stomach was in her mouth. Up 
again. There’s a fine young feller aboard of it, Mrs. 
Dempster wagered, and away and away it went, fast 
and fading, away and away the aeroplane shot: soaring 
over Greenwich and all the masts; over the little island 
of grey churches, St. Paul’s and the rest, till, on either 
side of London, fields spread out and dark brown 
woods where adventurous thrushes, hopping boldly, 
glancing quickly, snatched the snail and tapped him on 
a stone, once, twice, thrice. 
Away and away the aeroplane shot, till it was no- 
thing but a bright spark; an aspiration; a concentra- 
tion; a symbol (so it seemed to Mr. Bentley, vigorously 
rolling his strip of turf at Greenwich) of man’s soul; 
of his determination, thought Mr. Bentley, sweeping 
round the cedar tree, to get outside his body, beyond 
his house, by means of thought, Einstein, speculation, 
mathematics, the Mendelian theory—away the aero- 
plane shot. 
Then, while a seedy-looking nondescript man carry- 
ing a leather bag stood on the steps of St. Pauls 
Cathedral, and hesitated, for within was what balm, 
how great a welcome, how many tombs with banners 
waving over them, tokens of victories not over armies, 
but over, he thought, that plaguy spirit of truth seeking 
which leaves me at present without a situation, and 
more than that, the cathedral offers company, he 
thought, invites you to membership of a society; great 
men belong to it; martyrs have died for it; why not 
enter in, he thought, put this leather bag stuffed with 
pamphlets before an altar, a cross, the symbol of some- 
thing which has soared beyond seeking and questing 
and knocking of words together and has become all 

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