Ambrose stood quite still, much longer than is natural, the little boys let her be. Ambrose flourished his stick at them, upon which they decided that he was grotesque merely, and four instead of one cried “Bluebeard!” in chorus.Īlthough Mrs. In case they should proceed to tease his wife, Mr. Ambrose awful but the quickest witted cried “Bluebeard!” as he passed. With their sharp eye for eccentricity, they were inclined to think Mr. The embankment juts out in angles here and there, like pulpits instead of preachers, however, small boys occupy them, dangling string, dropping pebbles, or launching wads of paper for a cruise. Ambrose attempted consolation he patted her shoulder but she showed no signs of admitting him, and feeling it awkward to stand beside a grief that was greater than his, he crossed his arms behind him, and took a turn along the pavement. When they were safe on the further side, she gently withdrew her arm from his, allowing her mouth at the same time to relax, to tremble then tears rolled down, and leaning her elbows on the balustrade, she shielded her face from the curious. After watching the traffic on the Embankment for a minute or two with a stoical gaze she twitched her husband’s sleeve, and they crossed between the swift discharge of motor cars. It was only by scorning all she met that she kept herself from tears, and the friction of people brushing past her was evidently painful. In his guess one might guess from the moving lips that it was thought and in hers from the eyes fixed stonily straight in front of her at a level above the eyes of most that it was sorrow. But some enchantment had put both man and woman beyond the reach of malice and unpopularity.

The small, agitated figures–for in comparison with this couple most people looked small–decorated with fountain pens, and burdened with despatch-boxes, had appointments to keep, and drew a weekly salary, so that there was some reason for the unfriendly stare which was bestowed upon Mr. One afternoon in the beginning of October when the traffic was becoming brisk a tall man strode along the edge of the pavement with a lady on his arm.

In the streets of London where beauty goes unregarded, eccentricity must pay the penalty, and it is better not to be very tall, to wear a long blue cloak, or to beat the air with your left hand. If you persist, lawyers’ clerks will have to make flying leaps into the mud young lady typists will have to fidget behind you. As the streets that lead from the Strand to the Embankment are very narrow, it is better not to walk down them arm-in-arm.

The Voyage Out by Virginia Woolf