Flash chat sxse 121

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There were Jorrocks’ Jaunts and Jollities; there were Soapy Sponge and Mrs. Pity she asked of Maisie Johnson, standing by the hyacinth beds. he thought and while he hesitated out flew the aeroplane over Ludgate Circus. Dalloway’s parasol, handled it like a sacred weapon which a Goddess, having acquitted herself honourably in the field of battle, sheds, and placed it in the umbrella stand. Fear no more the heat o’ the sun; for the shock of Lady Bruton asking Richard to lunch without her made the moment in which she had stood shiver, as a plant on the river-bed feels the shock of a passing oar and shivers: so she rocked: so she shivered. They had been very, very intimate, she and Peter Walsh, when he was in love with Clarissa, and there was that dreadful, ridiculous scene over Richard Dalloway at lunch. But to be frank (and she felt that Peter was an old friend, a real friend — did absence matter? She had often wanted to write to him, but torn it up, yet felt he understood, for people understand without things being said, as one realises growing old, and old she was, had been that afternoon to see her sons at Eton, where they had the mumps), to be quite frank then, how could Clarissa have done it?

Asquith’s Memoirs and Big Game Shooting in Nigeria, all spread open. (She drew the knobbed lumps beneath her skirt.) Roses, she thought sardonically. For really, what with eating, drinking, and mating, the bad days and good, life had been no mere matter of roses, and what was more, let me tell you, Carrie Dempster had no wish to change her lot with any woman’s in Kentish Town! Millicent Bruton, whose lunch parties were said to be extraordinarily amusing, had not asked her. She had called Richard “Wickham.” Why not call Richard “Wickham”? and indeed they had never seen each other since, she and Clarissa, not more than half a dozen times perhaps in the last ten years. She was still attractive, still a personage, Sally Seton. He wore two camellias on his wedding day — that was all Peter knew of him.

In people’s eyes, in the swing, tramp, and trudge; in the bellow and the uproar; the carriages, motor cars, omnibuses, vans, sandwich men shuffling and swinging; brass bands; barrel organs; in the triumph and the jingle and the strange high singing of some aeroplane overhead was what she loved; life; London; this moment of June. Not the right hat for the early morning, was that it? “But I do not know,” said Peter Walsh, “what I feel.” Poor Peter, thought Sally. It was the state of the world that interested him; Wagner, Pope’s poetry, people’s characters eternally, and the defects of her own soul. 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. Some committee, she never asked what.) But with Peter everything had to be shared; everything gone into. She felt very young; at the same time unspeakably aged. And it was intolerable, 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 with 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! She sliced like a knife through everything; at the same time was outside, looking on. And she didn’t know their names, but friends she knew they were, friends without names, songs without words, always the best. that lady standing by the curtain all the evening, without speaking? Surely she used to cut up underclothes at the large table in the window? When his old mother wanted him to give up shooting or to take her to Bath he did it, without a word; he was really unselfish, and as for saying, as Peter did, that he had no heart, no brain, nothing but the manners and breeding of an English gentleman, that was only her dear Peter at his worst; and he could be intolerable; he could be impossible; but adorable to walk with on a morning like this. Arlington Street and Piccadilly seemed to chafe the very air in the Park and lift its leaves hotly, brilliantly, on waves of that divine vitality which Clarissa loved. Yet, said Sally, in her emotional way, with a rush of that enthusiasm which Peter used to love her for, yet dreaded a little now, so effusive she might become — how generous to her friends Clarissa was! To dance, to ride, she had adored all that.) For they might be parted for hundreds of years, she and Peter; she never wrote a letter and his were dry sticks; but suddenly it would come over her, If he were with me now what would he say? and what a rare quality one found it, and how sometimes at night or on Christmas Day, when she counted up her blessings, she put that friendship first.

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