Mrs. Dalloway — Vocabulary
Virginia Woolf
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There he stood by Miss Parry's chair as though he had been cut out of wood, he talking about wild flowers.†21 more

Lucrezia Warren Smith, sitting by her husband's side on a seat in Regent's Park in the Broad Walk, looked up.†20 more

He noted such revelations on the backs of envelopes.†8 more

In the tea-shop among the tables and the chattering waiters the appalling fear came over him—he could not feel.†6 more

At this dwindling of the monster, Clarissa laughed.†5 more

The trees waved, brandished.†4 more

There she sat in her white Cashmere shawl, with her head against the window— a formidable old lady, but kind to him, for he had found her some rare flower, and she was a great botanist, marching off in thick boots with a black collecting-box slung between her shoulders.†4 more

But they did not look robust.†5 more

There were, moreover, family affection; honour; courage; and a brilliant career.†2 more

But the enormous resources of the English language, the power it bestows, after all, of communicating feelings (at their age, she and Peter would have been arguing all the evening), was not for them.†4 more

They went to the Tower together; to the Victoria and Albert Museum; stood in the crowd to see the King open Parliament.†4 more

He was alone, exposed on this bleak eminence, stretched out—but not on a hill top; not on a crag; on Mrs. Filmer's sitting-room sofa.†2 more

But to go deeper, beneath what people said (and these judgements, how superficial, how fragmentary they are!)†2 more

The chairs still kept the impress of the Prime Minister and Lady Bruton, she turned deferentially, he sitting four-square, authoritatively.†2 more

There was a breath of tenderness; her severity, her prudery, her woodenness were all warmed through now, and she had about her as she said good-bye to the thick goldlaced man who was doing his best, and good luck to him, to look important, an inexpressible dignity; an exquisite cordiality; as if she wished the whole world well, and must now, being on the very verge and rim of things, take her leave.†3 more

But the indomitable egotism which for ever rides down the hosts opposed to it, the river which says on, on, on; even though, it admits, there may be no goal for us whatever, still on, on; this indomitable egotism charged her cheeks with colour; made her look very young; very pink; very bright-eyed as she sat with her dress upon her knee, and her needle held to the end of green silk, trembling a little.†4 more

Still remembering how once in some primeval May she had walked with her lover, this rusty pump, this battered old woman with one hand exposed for coppers the other clutching her side, would still be there in ten million years, remembering how once she had walked in May, where the sea flows now, with whom it did not matter—he was a man, oh yes, a man who had loved her.†2 more

But one must fight; vanquish; have faith in God.†1 more

For of all the people he had ever met Hugh was the greatest snob—the most obsequious—no, he didn't cringe exactly.†1 more

Bearing his flowers like a weapon, Richard Dalloway approached her; intent he passed her; still there was time for a spark between them—she laughed at the sight of him, he smiled good-humouredly, considering the problem of the female vagrant; not that they would ever speak.†1 more