11 februari 2014


For the millionth time, perhaps, she looked at the sea. A peacock 
butterfly now spread himself upon the teasle, fresh and newly emerged, 
as the blue and chocolate down on his wings testified. Mrs. Pascoe went 
indoors, fetched a cream pan, came out, and stood scouring it. Her face 
was assuredly not soft, sensual, or lecherous, but hard, wise, wholesome 
rather, signifying in a room full of sophisticated people the flesh and 
blood of life. She would tell a lie, though, as soon as the truth. 
Behind her on the wall hung a large dried skate. Shut up in the parlour 
she prized mats, china mugs, and photographs, though the mouldy little 
room was saved from the salt breeze only by the depth of a brick, and 
between lace curtains you saw the gannet drop like a stone, and on 
stormy days the gulls came shuddering through the air, and the steamers' 
lights were now high, now deep. Melancholy were the sounds on a winter's 

Jacob's Room 
Virginia Woolf

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