'They've come back!' she exclaimed, and at once she felt much more annoyed with them than relieved. Then she wondered, had it happened? She would go down and they would tell her -- but no. They could not tell her anything, with all these people about. So she must go down and begin dinner and wait. ...
But she stopped. There was a smell of burning. Could they have let the Bouef en Daube overboil? she wondered, pray heaven not! when the great clangour of the gong announced solemnly, authoritatively, that all those scattered about it, in attics, in bedrooms, on little perches of their own, reading, writing, putting the last smooth to their hair, or fastening dresses, must leave all that, and the little odds and ends on their washing-tables and dressing tables, and the novels on the bed-tables, and the diaries which were so private, and assemble in the dining-room for dinner.
But as I've been saying, I'd forgotten everything that Virginia Woolf did to paint in her setting, and all of her characters, and the things that are in their heads, and how lyrical and beautiful the writing is. When I got to the end of Part I on Friday, I found myself wanting to stop, and breathe, make sure I hadn't missed anything, because I was rushing forward a little to get to the next sentence.
What are you doing today? So far, I'm cooking and puttering around, but I'm going to curl up with cups of tea and a book later. If it's this one, I'm still not sure if I'm going to begin where I left off, or go back and read through this scene again. How often do I find myself wanting to re-read a book before I've even finished?
I hope your Sunday reading is as promising!