Summary

Portrait of Virginia Woolf Virginia Woolf Mrs Dalloway in Bond Street

But no good looking! One must economize. She must go on past the picture dealer's where one of the odd French pictures hung, as if people had thrown confetti—pink and blue—for a joke. If you had lived with pictures (and it's the same with books and music) thought Clarissa, passing the Aeolian Hall, you can't be taken in by a joke.
The river of Bond Street was clogged. There, like a Queen at a tournament, raised, regal, was Lady Bexborough. She sat in her carriage, upright, alone, looking through her glasses. The white glove was loose at her wrist.
Source: Gutenberg

Portrait of Virginia Woolf Virginia Woolf Mrs Dalloway in Bond Street

Clarissa held herself upright for she had spoken aloud and now she was in Piccadilly, passing the house with the slender green columns, and the balconies; passing club windows full of newspapers; passing old Lady Burdett Coutts' house where the glazed white parrot used to hang; and Devonshire House, without its gilt leopards; and Claridge's, where she must remember Dick wanted her to leave a card on Mrs Jepson or she would be gone. Rich Americans can be very charming. There was St James palace; like a child's game with bricks; and now—she had passed Bond Street—she was by Hatchard's book shop.
Source: Gutenberg

Portrait of Virginia Woolf Virginia Woolf Mrs Dalloway in Bond Street

But if Dick were to die to-morrow as for believing in God—no, she would let the children choose, but for herself, like Lady Bexborough, who opened the bazaar, they say, with the telegram in her hand—Roden, her favourite, killed—she would go on. But why, if one doesn't believe? For the sake of others, she thought, taking the glove in her hand. This girl would be much more unhappy if she didn't believe.
"Thirty shillings" said the shopwoman. "No, pardon me Madame, thirty-five. The French gloves are more."
For one doesn't live for oneself, thought Clarissa.
Source: Gutenberg

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