The Story of an Hour

When she abandoned herself a little whispered word escaped her slightly parted lips.

She wept at once, with sudden, wild abandonment, in her sister's arms.

Knowing that Mrs. Mallard was afflicted with a heart trouble, great care was taken to break to her as gently as possible the news of her husband's death.

What could love, the unsolved mystery, count for in the face of this possession of self-assertion which she suddenly recognized as the strongest impulse of her being!

He had only taken the time to assure himself of its truth by a second telegram, and had hastened to forestall any less careful, less tender friend in bearing the sad message.

She was young, with a fair, calm face, whose lines bespoke repression and even a certain strength.

She clasped her sister's waist, and together they descended the stairs.

It was Brently Mallard who entered, a little travel-stained, composedly carrying his grip-sack and umbrella.

A clear and exalted perception enabled her to dismiss the suggestion as trivial.

The notes of a distant song which some one was singing reached her faintly, and countless sparrows were twittering in the eaves.

No; she was drinking in a very elixir of life through that open window.

She did not know; it was too subtle and elusive to name.

A clear and exalted perception enabled her to dismiss the suggestion as trivial.

A clear and exalted perception enabled her to dismiss the suggestion as trivial.

He had only taken the time to assure himself of its truth by a second telegram, and had hastened to forestall any less careful, less tender friend in bearing the sad message.

A kind intention or a cruel intention made the act seem no less a crime as she looked upon it in that brief moment of illumination.

She arose at length and opened the door to her sister's importunities.

There would be no powerful will bending hers in that blind persistence with which men and women believe they have a right to impose a private will upon a fellow-creature.

They stayed keen and bright.

There would be no powerful will bending hers in that blind persistence with which men and women believe they have a right to impose a private will upon a fellow-creature.

But she saw beyond that bitter moment a long procession of years to come that would belong to her absolutely.

She was young, with a fair, calm face, whose lines bespoke repression and even a certain strength.

Her fancy was running riot along those days ahead of her.

She did not hear the story as many women have heard the same, with a paralyzed inability to accept its significance.

She sat with her head thrown back upon the cushion of the chair, quite motionless, except when a sob came up into her throat and shook her, as a child who has cried itself to sleep continues to sob in its dreams.

She was beginning to recognize this thing that was approaching to possess her, and she was striving to beat it back with her will--as powerless as her two white slender hands would have been.

She did not know; it was too subtle and elusive to name.

He had only taken the time to assure himself of its truth by a second telegram, and had hastened to forestall any less careful, less tender friend in bearing the sad message.

There was a feverish triumph in her eyes, and she carried herself unwittingly like a goddess of Victory.

A clear and exalted perception enabled her to dismiss the suggestion as trivial.

Now her bosom rose and fell tumultuously.

It was her sister Josephine who told her, in broken sentences; veiled hints that revealed in half concealing.

In the street below a peddler was crying his wares.

She wept at once, with sudden, wild abandonment, in her sister's arms.

But now there was a dull stare in her eyes, whose gaze was fixed away off yonder on one of those patches of blue sky.