Mrs. Dalloway

she passed Gordon’s statue, seemed, Peter Walsh thought (susceptible as
he was), to shed veil after veil, until she became the very woman he
had always had in mind; young, but stately; merry, but discreet; black,
but enchanting.

Straightening himself and stealthily fingering his pocket-knife he
started after her to follow this woman, this excitement, which seemed
even with its back turned to shed on him a light which connected them,
which singled him out, as if the random uproar of the traffic had
whispered through hollowed hands his name, not Peter, but his private
name which he called himself in his own thoughts. “You,” she said, only
“you,” saying it with her white gloves and her shoulders. Then the
thin long cloak which the wind stirred as she walked past Dent’s shop
in Cockspur Street blew out with an enveloping kindness, a mournful
tenderness, as of arms that would open and take the tired--

But she’s not married; she’s young; quite young, thought Peter, the
red carnation he had seen her wear as she came across Trafalgar Square
burning again in his eyes and making her lips red. But she waited at
the kerbstone. There was a dignity about her. She was not worldly, like