Masters of Prose - Virginia Woolf. Virginia Woolf

Her pearls burnt like a phosphorescent flare in the darkness.

      And as Shelmerdine, now grown a fine sea captain, hale, fresh-coloured, and alert, leapt to the ground, there sprang up over his head a single wild bird.

      'It is the goose!' Orlando cried. 'The wild goose...'

      And the twelfth stroke of midnight sounded; the twelfth stroke of midnight, Thursday, the eleventh of October, Nineteen hundred and Twenty Eight.