Mrs. Dalloway said she would buy the flowers herself.
For Lucy had her work cut out for her. The doors would be taken
off their hinges; Rumpelmayer's men were coming. And then, thought
Clarissa Dalloway, what a morning—fresh as if issued to children on
a beach.
What a lark! What a plunge! For so it had always seemed to her,
when, with a little squeak of the hinges, which she could hear now,
she had burst open the French windows and plunged at Bourton into
the open air. How fresh, how calm, stiller than this of course, the
air was in the early morning; like the flap of a wave; the kiss of
a wave; chill and sharp and yet (for a girl of eighteen as she then
was) solemn, feeling as she did, standing there at the open window,
that something awful was about to happen; looking at the flowers,
at the trees with the smoke winding off them and the rooks rising,
falling; standing and looking until Peter Walsh said, "Musing among
the vegetables?"—was that it?—"I prefer men to cauliflowers"—was
that it? He must have said it at breakfast one morning when she had
gone out on to the terrace—Peter Walsh. He would be back from India
one of these days, June or July, she forgot which, for his letters
were awfully dull; it was his sayings one remembered; his eyes, his
pocket-knife, his smile, his grumpiness and, when millions of
things had utterly vanished—how strange it was!—a few sayings like
this about cabbages.
Virginia Woolf, Mrs. Dalloway
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