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"The Story of An Hour"

Learn more about the company on www. Slatkin, there was never a crowd, not even for a second. But the behavior of one demographic remained absolutely consistent. And every single time, a parent scooted the kid away. 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! Far from playing a spectator the story of an hour essay, the reader of this story must become engaged and must take a moral stance.



It was her sister Josephine who told her, in broken sentences; veiled hints that revealed in half concealing. She did not hear the story as many women have heard the same, with a paralyzed inability to accept its significance. When the storm of grief had spent itself she went away to her room alone. She would have no one follow her.

There stood, facing the open window, a comfortable, roomy armchair. Into this she sank, pressed down by a physical exhaustion that haunted her body and seemed to reach into her soul. She could see in the open square before her house the tops of trees that were all aquiver with the new spring life.

The delicious breath of rain was in the air. In the street below a peddler was crying his wares. The notes of a distant song which some one was singing reached her faintly, and countless sparrows were twittering in the eaves. There were patches of blue sky showing here and there through the clouds that had met and piled one above the other in the west facing her window. 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 young, with a fair, calm face, whose lines bespoke repression and even a certain strength. 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. It was not a glance of reflection, but rather indicated a suspension of intelligent thought.

There was something coming to her and she was waiting for it, fearfully. She did not know; it was too subtle and elusive to name. But she felt it, creeping out of the sky, reaching toward her through the sounds, the scents, the color that filled the air.

Now her bosom rose and fell tumultuously. 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. When she abandoned herself a little whispered word escaped her slightly parted lips.

She said it over and over under hte breath: They stayed keen and bright. Her pulses beat fast, and the coursing blood warmed and relaxed every inch of her body.

She did not stop to ask if it were or were not a monstrous joy that held her. A clear and exalted perception enabled her to dismiss the suggestion as trivial. She knew that she would weep again when she saw the kind, tender hands folded in death; the face that had never looked save with love upon her, fixed and gray and dead. But she saw beyond that bitter moment a long procession of years to come that would belong to her absolutely. And she opened and spread her arms out to them in welcome.

There would be no one to live for during those coming years; she would live for herself. 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. 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. And yet she had loved him--sometimes.

Often she had not. What did it matter! 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! Body and soul free! Josephine was kneeling before the closed door with her lips to the keyhold, imploring for admission. I beg; open the door--you will make yourself ill.

What are you doing, Louise? I am not making myself ill. Her fancy was running riot along those days ahead of her. Spring days, and summer days, and all sorts of days that would be her own. She breathed a quick prayer that life might be long.

It was only yesterday she had thought with a shudder that life might be long. There was a feverish triumph in her eyes, and she carried herself unwittingly like a goddess of Victory.

Richards stood waiting for them at the bottom. Some one was opening the front door with a latchkey. It was Brently Mallard who entered, a little travel-stained, composedly carrying his grip-sack and umbrella.

He had been far from the scene of the accident, and did not even know there had been one. When the doctors came they said she had died of heart disease--of the joy that kills. Pick out at least five phrases which you think are especially important to the story what you might mark on a printed text. Briefly describe why you chose each. What questions about character or motivation or plot does this story leave in your mind?



"The Story of An Hour" Kate Chopin () 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. It was her sister Josephine who told her, in broken sentences; veiled hints that revealed in half concealing. The Story of an Hour, by Kate Chopin - “The Story of an Hour” is a stark display of female rejection of the norms of society. This work, by Kate Chopin, begins with a woman going through the stages of grief for her husband’s death.

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