
You are Clarissa Dalloway, walking out on a June morning in Westminster to buy the flowers yourself for tonight's party. A backfiring motorcar and a skywriting aeroplane stop London in its tracks, and an old friend's mention of Bourton carries you back thirty years before you are home again, mending a torn green dress. Your husband has gone to a luncheon that pointedly did not include you — and before the seam is finished, Peter Walsh, unannounced and freshly back from India, is asking for you at the door.
Read Mrs Dalloway