Mrs. Dalloway

boil--very ineffective with her fingers; the smoke curtseying, blowing
in their faces; her little pink face showing through; begging water
from an old woman in a cottage, who came to the door to watch them go.
They walked always; the others drove. She was bored driving, disliked
all animals, except that dog. They tramped miles along roads. She would
break off to get her bearings, pilot him back across country; and all
the time they argued, discussed poetry, discussed people, discussed
politics (she was a Radical then); never noticing a thing except when
she stopped, cried out at a view or a tree, and made him look with
her; and so on again, through stubble fields, she walking ahead, with
a flower for her aunt, never tired of walking for all her delicacy; to
drop down on Bourton in the dusk. Then, after dinner, old Breitkopf
would open the piano and sing without any voice, and they would lie
sunk in arm-chairs, trying not to laugh, but always breaking down and
laughing, laughing--laughing at nothing. Breitkopf was supposed not to
see. And then in the morning, flirting up and down like a wagtail in
front of the house....

Oh it was a letter from her! This blue envelope; that was her hand. And