Mrs. Dalloway

Venice. Men killed in battle were thus saluted, and Septimus had been
through the War. Of her memories, most were happy.

She put on her hat, and ran through cornfields--where could it have
been?--on to some hill, somewhere near the sea, for there were ships,
gulls, butterflies; they sat on a cliff. In London too, there they sat,
and, half dreaming, came to her through the bedroom door, rain falling,
whisperings, stirrings among dry corn, the caress of the sea, as it
seemed to her, hollowing them in its arched shell and murmuring to her
laid on shore, strewn she felt, like flying flowers over some tomb.

“He is dead,” she said, smiling at the poor old woman who guarded her
with her honest light-blue eyes fixed on the door. (They wouldn’t bring
him in here, would they?) But Mrs. Filmer pooh-poohed. Oh no, oh no!
They were carrying him away now. Ought she not to be told? Married
people ought to be together, Mrs. Filmer thought. But they must do as
the doctor said.

“Let her sleep,” said Dr. Holmes, feeling her pulse. She saw the large
outline of his body standing dark against the window. So that was Dr.
Holmes.

One of the triumphs of civilisation, Peter Walsh thought. It is one of