Virginia Woolf: The Complete Works

by Virginia Woolf

She knew how to read the people who were passing her; there were the rich who were running to and from each others’ houses at this hour; there were the bigoted workers driving in a straight line to their offices; there were the poor who were unhappy and rightly malignant.

“Once rheumatic, always rheumatic, I fear,” he replied.

“One does not die of it, at any rate,” said Helen. “As a general rule—no,” said Mr. Pepper.

“Drink—drugs,” said Mr. Pepper with sinister conciseness. “He left a commentary. Hopeless muddle, I’m told.”

“which is surprising, seeing how text-books change.”

Winding veils round their heads, the women walked on deck. They were now moving steadily down the river, passing the dark shapes of ships at anchor, and London was a swarm of lights with a pale yellow canopy drooping above it.

“No” to her, on principle, for he never yielded to a woman on account of her sex.

“My husband had to pass an irate lady every afternoon last session who said nothing else, I imagine.”

“Don’t tell me you’re a suffragist?” she turned to Ridley.

“It’s dreadful,” said Mrs. Dalloway, who, while her husband spoke, had been thinking. “When I’m with artists I feel so intensely the delights of shutting oneself up in a little world of one’s own, with pictures and music and everything beautiful, and then I go out into the streets and the first child I meet with its poor, hungry, dirty little face makes me turn round and say, ‘No, I can’t shut myself up—I won’t live in a world of my own. I should like to stop all