Thursday, 31 July 2014

Saturday 27th March 1937

Merely scribing here, over a log fire, on a cold but bright Easter morning; sudden shafts of sun, a scatter of snow on the hills early; sudden storms, ink black, octopus pouring, coming up: and the rooks fidgeting and pecking in the elm trees. As for the beauty, as I always say when I walk the terrace after breakfast, too much for one pair of eyes. We came down on Thursday, packed in the rush in London; cars spinning all along the roads; yesterday at last perfect freedom from telephones and reviews, and no one rang up.


V W

3 comments:

  1. However, breakfast was over and Mrs Dalloway was rising. " I always think religion's like collecting beetles," she said, summing up the discussion as she went up stairs with Helen. " One person has a passion for black beetles; another hasn't; it's no good arguing about it. What's your black beetle now?"
    - "I suppose it's my children," said Helen.
    - "Ah, that's different," Clarissa breathed.

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  2. I wonder if she was a lover of the countryside or of the cities??

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