Mrs. Dalloway

the long slope of the park dipped like a length of green stuff with
a ceiling cloth of blue and pink smoke high above, and there was a
rampart of far irregular houses hazed in smoke, the traffic hummed in
a circle, and on the right, dun-coloured animals stretched long necks
over the Zoo palings, barking, howling. There they sat down under a
tree.

“Look,” she implored him, pointing at a little troop of boys carrying
cricket stumps, and one shuffled, spun round on his heel and shuffled,
as if he were acting a clown at the music hall.

“Look,” she implored him, for Dr. Holmes had told her to make him
notice real things, go to a music hall, play cricket--that was the very
game, Dr. Holmes said, a nice out-of-door game, the very game for her
husband.

“Look,” she repeated.

Look the unseen bade him, the voice which now communicated with him who
was the greatest of mankind, Septimus, lately taken from life to death,
the Lord who had come to renew society, who lay like a coverlet, a snow
blanket smitten only by the sun, for ever unwasted, suffering for ever,
the scapegoat, the eternal sufferer, but he did not want it, he moaned,
putting from him with a wave of his hand that eternal suffering, that