That was the devilish part of her—this coldness, this woodenness, something very profound in her, which he had felt again this morning talking to her; an impenetrability.
Sally at lunch saying something about Dalloway, and calling him “My name is Dalloway”; whereupon Clarissa suddenly stiffened, coloured in a way she had, and rapped out sharply, “We’ve had enough of that feeble joke.”
And when she said, “It’s no use. It’s no use. This is the end”—after he had spoken for hours, it seemed, with the tears running down his cheeks—it was as if she had hit him in the face.

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