• In a world of separation, art connects


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from Mrs. Dalloway…

Her evening dresses hung in the cupboard.

Clarissa, plunging her hand into the softness,

gently detached the green dress and carried

it to the window. She had torn it. Someone

had trod on the skirt. She had felt it give at

the  Embassy party at the top among the folds.

By artificial light the green shone, but lost its

colour now in the sun. She would mend it.

Her maids had too much to do. She would

wear it tonight. She would take her silks,

her scissors, her – what was it? Her thimble,

of course, down into the drawing-room...

Quiet descended on her, calm, content,

as her needle, drawing the silk smoothly

to its gentle pause, collected the green










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