like a man;with a country house;very dignified,very sincere.Instead of which she had a narrow pea-stick figure;a ridiculous little face, beaked like a bird's.That she held herself well was true;and had nice hands and feet;and dressed well,considering that she spent little.But often now this body she wore (she stopped to look at a Dutch picture), this body,with all its capacities,seemed nothing-nothing at all.She had the oddest sense of being herself invisible;unseen;unknown;there being no more marrying,no more having of children now,but only this astonishing and rather solemn progress with the rest of them,up Bond Street,this being Mrs.Dalloway;not even Clarissa any more;this being Mrs.Richard Dalloway. Bond Street fascinated her;Bond Street early in the morning in the season; its flags flying;its shops;no splash;no glitter;one roll of tweed in the shop where her father had bought his suits for fifty years;a few pearls; salmon on an iceblock. "That is all,she said,looking at the fishmonger's."That is all,"she repeated,pausing for a moment at the window of a glove shop where,before the War,you could buy almost perfect gloves.And her old Uncle William used to say a lady is known by her shoes and her gloves.He had turned on his bed one morning in the middle of the War.He had said,"I have had enough."Gloves and shoes;she had a passion for gloves;but her own daughter,her Elizabeth,cared not a straw for either of them. Not a straw,she thought,going on up Bond Street to a shop where they kept flowers for her when she gave a party.Elizabeth really cared for her dog most of all.The whole house this morning smelt of tar.Still, better poor Grizzle than Miss Kilman;better distemper and tar and all the rest of it than sitting mewed in a stuffy bedroom with a prayer book! Better anything,she was inclined to say.But it might be only a phase, as Richard said,such as all girls go through.It might be falling in love. But why with Miss Kilman?who had been badly treated of course;one must make allowances for that,and Richard said she was very able,had a really historical mind.Anyhow they were inseparable,and Elizabeth,her own daughter,went to Communion;and how she dressed,how she treated people who came to lunch she did not care a bit,it being her experience that the religious ecstasy made people callous (so did causes);dulled their feelings,for Miss Kilman would do anything for the Russians,starved herself for the Austrians,but in private inflicted positive torture,so insensitive was she,dressed in a green mackintosh coat.Year in year out she wore that coat;she perspired;she was never in the room five minutes without making you feel her superiority,your inferiority;how poor she was;how rich you were;how she lived in a slum without a cushion or a bed or a rug or whatever it might be,all her soul rusted with that 66 like a man; with a country house; very dignified, very sincere. Instead of which she had a narrow pea-stick figure; a ridiculous little face, beaked like a bird's. That she held herself well was true; and had nice hands and feet; and dressed well, considering that she spent little. But often now this body she wore (she stopped to look at a Dutch picture), this body, with all its capacities, seemed nothing—nothing at all. She had the oddest sense of being herself invisible; unseen; unknown; there being no more marrying, no more having of children now, but only this astonishing and rather solemn progress with the rest of them, up Bond Street, this being Mrs. Dalloway; not even Clarissa any more; this being Mrs. Richard Dalloway. Bond Street fascinated her; Bond Street early in the morning in the season; its flags flying; its shops; no splash; no glitter; one roll of tweed in the shop where her father had bought his suits for fifty years; a few pearls; salmon on an iceblock. "That is all," she said, looking at the fishmonger's. "That is all," she repeated, pausing for a moment at the window of a glove shop where, before the War, you could buy almost perfect gloves. And her old Uncle William used to say a lady is known by her shoes and her gloves. He had turned on his bed one morning in the middle of the War. He had said, "I have had enough." Gloves and shoes; she had a passion for gloves; but her own daughter, her Elizabeth, cared not a straw for either of them. Not a straw, she thought, going on up Bond Street to a shop where they kept flowers for her when she gave a party. Elizabeth really cared for her dog most of all. The whole house this morning smelt of tar. Still, better poor Grizzle than Miss Kilman; better distemper and tar and all the rest of it than sitting mewed in a stuffy bedroom with a prayer book! Better anything, she was inclined to say. But it might be only a phase, as Richard said, such as all girls go through. It might be falling in love. But why with Miss Kilman? who had been badly treated of course; one must make allowances for that, and Richard said she was very able, had a really historical mind. Anyhow they were inseparable, and Elizabeth, her own daughter, went to Communion; and how she dressed, how she treated people who came to lunch she did not care a bit, it being her experience that the religious ecstasy made people callous (so did causes); dulled their feelings, for Miss Kilman would do anything for the Russians, starved herself for the Austrians, but in private inflicted positive torture, so insensitive was she, dressed in a green mackintosh coat. Year in year out she wore that coat; she perspired; she was never in the room five minutes without making you feel her superiority, your inferiority; how poor she was; how rich you were; how she lived in a slum without a cushion or a bed or a rug or whatever it might be, all her soul rusted with that