Full text: Mrs. Dalloway

Mrs. DaLLoway said she would buy the flowers herself. 
For Lucy had her work cut out for her. The doors 
would be taken off their hinges; Rumpelmayer’s men 
were coming. And then, thought Clarissa Dalloway, 
what a morning—fresh as if issued to children on a 
What a lark! What a plunge! For so it had always 
seemed to her when, with a little squeak of the hinges, 
which she could hear now, she had burst open the 
French windows and plunged at Bourton into the open 
air. How fresh, how calm, stiller than this of course, the 
air was in the early morning; like the flap of a wave; the 
kiss of a wave; chill and sharp and yet (for a girl of 
eighteen as she then was) solemn, feeling as she did, 
standing there at the open window, that something aw- 
ful was about to happen; looking at the flowers, at the 
trees with the smoke winding off them and the rooks 
rising, falling; standing and looking until Peter Walsh 
said, “Musing among the vegetables ?’—was that it >— 
“I prefer men to cauliflowers”—was that it? He must 
have said it at breakfast one morning when she had 
gone out on to the terrace—Peter Walsh. He would be 
back from India one of these days, June or July, she 
forgot which, for his letters were awfully dull; it was his 
sayings one remembered; his eyes, his pocket-knife, his 
smile, his grumpiness and, when millions of things had 
utterly vanished—how strange it was!—a few sayings 
like this about cabbages. 

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