Mrs. Dalloway

not Bradshaw. Getting up rather unsteadily, hopping indeed from foot to
foot, he considered Mrs. Filmer’s nice clean bread knife with “Bread”
carved on the handle. Ah, but one mustn’t spoil that. The gas fire?
But it was too late now. Holmes was coming. Razors he might have got,
but Rezia, who always did that sort of thing, had packed them. There
remained only the window, the large Bloomsbury-lodging house window,
the tiresome, the troublesome, and rather melodramatic business of
opening the window and throwing himself out. It was their idea of
tragedy, not his or Rezia’s (for she was with him). Holmes and Bradshaw
like that sort of thing. (He sat on the sill.) But he would wait till
the very last moment. He did not want to die. Life was good. The sun
hot. Only human beings--what did _they_ want? Coming down the staircase
opposite an old man stopped and stared at him. Holmes was at the door.
“I’ll give it you!” he cried, and flung himself vigorously, violently
down on to Mrs. Filmer’s area railings.

“The coward!” cried Dr. Holmes, bursting the door open. Rezia ran
to the window, she saw; she understood. Dr. Holmes and Mrs. Filmer
collided with each other. Mrs. Filmer flapped her apron and made her