No, it is precisely half-past eleven, shesays. The
perfecthostess, he said to her, whereupon she winced all over.
Then when they got back he could hardly
walk.
Every one has friends who were killedin the War.
But Septimus let himself think about horrible things, as she couldtoo, if she tried.
She wasnot worldly, like Clarissa; not rich, like Clarissa. This susceptibility to
impressions had been his undoing no doubt. She trusts to her charm toomuch, he
thought.
Never, never had he suffered soinfernally! He woke
with extreme suddenness, saying to himself, The death ofthe soul.
He feltthat he was grinding against something
physically hard; she wasunyielding. The words attached themselvesto some scene, to
some room, to some past he had been dreaming of. And theres no flesh on hisneck; his
hands are red; and hes six months older than I am!
And he turned round and there wasClarissa
again.
To watch a leaf quivering in the rush of air was
anexquisite joy. And theres no flesh on hisneck; his hands are red; and hes six
months older than I am! The future lies in the hands of young men likethat, he
thought.
Like the pulse of a perfect heart,life struck
straight through the streets.
Never, never had he suffered
soinfernally!
The trafficrespected it; vans were stopped.
Hestrained; he pushed; he looked; he saw Regents Park before him.
Ridiculous enough, still there it is, he
thought.
That he at his age should be sucked under inhis
little bow-tie by that monster!
Its got to be finished one way orthe other, he said
to himself.
To the Prime Minister, the voiceswhich rustled
above his head replied. Hesat down beside her, and couldnt speak. And that is being
young, Peter Walsh thought as he passed them.
Thedead were in Thessaly, Evans sang, among the
orchids.
She was close to him now, could see him staring at
the sky,muttering, clasping his hands.
She flung herself upon him, went intoraptures. She
was close to him now, could see him staring at the sky,muttering, clasping his
hands.
Clarissa could make what she would of it. The grey
nurse resumed her knitting as Peter Walsh, on the hot seatbeside her, began snoring.
He lay back in his chair, exhausted but upheld. It is half-past eleven, she says,
and the sound of St. So the elderly nurse knitted over the sleeping baby in
RegentsPark. Was it that she had taken off her wedding ring?
Why does shegive these parties, he thought.