Page "fiction" Paragraph 76
from
Brown Corpus
Jefferson Lawrence was alone at the small, perfectly appointed table by the window looking out over the river.
He had dinner and sat there over his coffee watching the winding pattern of traffic as it crossed the bridge and spread out like a serpent with two heads.
Beside him was Mrs. Dalloway.
He thought how this dainty, fragile older woman threading her way through the streets of Westminster on a day in June, enjoying the flowers in the shops, the greetings from old friends, but never really drawing a deep, passionate breath, was so like himself.
He, and Mrs. Dalloway, too, had never permitted themselves the luxury of joys that dug into the bone marrow of the spirit.
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