Full text: Mrs. Dalloway

MRS. DALLOWAY 
and Baron Marbot and the candle half-burnt. Lying 
awake, the floor creaked; the lit house was suddenly 
darkened, and if she raised her head she could just hear 
the click of the handle released as gently as possible 
by Richard, who slipped upstairs in his socks and 
then, as often as not, dropped his hot-water bottle and 
swore! How she laughed! 
But this question of love (she thought, putting her 
coat away), this falling in love with women. Take 
Sally Seton; her relation in the old days with Sally 
Seton. Had not that, after all, been love? 
She sat on the floor—that was her first impression of 
Sally—she sat on the floor with her arms round her 
knees, smoking a cigarette. Where could it have been? 
The Mannings’? The Kinloch-Jones’s? At some party 
(where she could not be certain), for she had a distinct 
recollection of saying to the man she was with, “Who is 
that?” And he had told her, and said that Sally’s 
parents did not get on (how that shocked her—that 
one’s parents should quarrel!). But all that evening she 
could not take her eyes off Sally. It was an extra- 
ordinary beauty of the kind she most admired, dark, 
large-eyed, with that quality which, since she hadn’t got 
it herself, she always envied—a sort of abandonment, 
as if she could say anything, do anything; a quality 
much commoner in foreigners than in Englishwomen. 
Sally always said she had French blood in her veins, an 
ancestor had been with Marie Antoinette, had his head 
cut off, left a ruby ring. Perhaps that summer she came 
to stay at Bourton, walking in quite unexpectedly with- 
out a penny in her pocket, one night after dinner, and 
upsetting poor Aunt Helena to such an extent that she 
never forgave her. There had been some awful quarrel 
at home. She literally hadn’t a penny that night when 
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