Mrs. Dalloway

heard of her, from Clarissa, losing the sight of one eye. It seemed so
fitting--one of nature’s masterpieces--that old Miss Parry should turn
to glass. She would die like some bird in a frost gripping her perch.
She belonged to a different age, but being so entire, so complete,
would always stand up on the horizon, stone-white, eminent, like a
lighthouse marking some past stage on this adventurous, long, long
voyage, this interminable (he felt for a copper to buy a paper and
read about Surrey and Yorkshire--he had held out that copper millions
of times. Surrey was all out once more)--this interminable life. But
cricket was no mere game. Cricket was important. He could never help
reading about cricket. He read the scores in the stop press first, then
how it was a hot day; then about a murder case. Having done things
millions of times enriched them, though it might be said to take the
surface off. The past enriched, and experience, and having cared for
one or two people, and so having acquired the power which the young
lack, of cutting short, doing what one likes, not caring a rap what
people say and coming and going without any very great expectations
(he left his paper on the table and moved off), which however (and