The hall of the house was as cool as a vault. The cook whistled in the kitchen. She heard the click of the typewriter. It was her life and, bending her head over the hall table she bowed beneath the influence, felt blessed and purified, saying to herself, as she took the pad with the telephone message on it, how moments like this are buds on the tree of life (as if some lovely rose had blossomed for her eyes only); not for a moment did she believe in God; but all the more, she thought, taking up the pad, must one repay in daily life to servants, yes, to dogs and canaries, above all to Richard her husband, who has the foundation of it-of the gay sounds, of the green lights, of the cook when whistling, for Mrs Walker was Irish and whistled all day long-one must pay back from this secret deposit of exquisite moments, she thought...
Mrs Dalloway
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