still played over her face like moonshine.

"Want more?" Helen shouted. Speech was again beyond Clarissa's reach.
The wind laid the ship shivering on her side. Pale agonies crossed Mrs.
Dalloway in waves. When the curtains flapped, grey lights puffed across
her. Between the spasms of the storm, Helen made the curtain fast, shook
the pillows, stretched the bed-clothes, and smoothed the hot nostrils
and forehead with cold scent.

"You _are_ good!" Clarissa gasped. "Horrid mess!"

She was trying to apologise for white underclothes fallen and scattered
on the floor. For one second she opened a single eye, and saw that the
room was tidy.

"That's nice," she gasped.

Helen left her; far, far away she knew that she felt a kind of liking
for Mrs. Dalloway. She could not help respecting her spirit and
her desire, even in the throes of sickness, for a tidy bedroom. Her
petticoats, however, rose above her knees.

Quite suddenly the storm relaxed its grasp. It happened at tea; the
expected paroxysm of the blast gave out just as it reached its climax
and dwindled away, and the ship instead of taking the usual plunge
went steadily. The monotonous order of plunging and rising, roaring and
relaxing, was interfered with, and every one at table looked up and
felt something loosen within them. The strain was slackened and human
feelings began to peep again, as they do when daylight shows at the end
of a tunnel.