There was a window, and a table and a chair
in the window, and upon the table stood a rusty inkstand, an ashtray, an
old copy of a French newspaper, and a pen with a broken nib. Rachel
sat down, as if to study the French newspaper, but a tear fell on the
blurred French print, raising a soft blot. She lifted her head sharply,
exclaiming aloud, "It's intolerable!" Looking out of the window with
eyes that would have seen nothing even had they not been dazed by tears,
she indulged herself at last in violent abuse of the entire day. It had
been miserable from start to finish; first, the service in the chapel;
then luncheon; then Evelyn; then Miss Allan; then old Mrs. Paley
blocking up the passage. All day long she had been tantalized and put
off. She had now reached one of those eminences, the result of
some crisis, from which the world is finally displayed in its
true proportions. She disliked the look of it immensely--churches,
politicians, misfits, and huge impostures--men like Mr. Dalloway,
men like Mr. Bax, Evelyn and her chatter, Mrs. Paley blocking up the
passage. Meanwhile the steady beat of her own pulse represented the hot
current of feeling that ran down beneath; beating, struggling, fretting.
For the time, her own body was the source of all the life in the world,
which tried to burst forth here--there--and was repressed now by Mr.
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