“It sometimes entered Mr. Pontellier's mind to wonder if his wife were not growing a little unbalanced mentally. He could see plainly that she was not herself. That is, he could not see that she was becoming herself and daily casting aside that fictitious self which we assume like a garment with which to appear before the world.”

“He could see plainly that she was not herself. That is, he could not see that she was becoming herself and daily casting aside that fictitious self which we assume like a garment with which to appear before the world.”

“She was becoming herself and daily casting aside that fictitious self which we assume like a garment with which to appear before the world.”

“The boys were tumbling about, clinging to his legs, imploring thatnumerous things be brought back to them. Mr. Pontellier was a greatfavorite, and ladies, men, children, even nurses, were always on hand tosay goodby to him. His wife stood smiling and waving, the boys shouting,as he disappeared in the old rockaway down the sandy road.A few days later a box arrived for Mrs. Pontellier from New Orleans. Itwas from her husband. It was filled with friandises, with lusciousand toothsome bits--the finest of fruits, pates, a rare bottle or two,delicious syrups, and bonbons in abundance.Mrs. Pontellier was always very generous with the contents of such abox; she was quite used to receiving them when away from home. Thepates and fruit were brought to the dining-room; the bonbons were passedaround. And the ladies, selecting with dainty and discriminating fingersand a little greedily, all declared that Mr. Pontellier was the besthusband in the world. Mrs. Pontellier was forced to admit that she knewof none better.”

“Edna looked straight before her with a self-absorbed expression upon her face. She felt no interest in anything about her. The street, the children, the fruit vender, the flowers growing there under her eyes, were all part and parcel of an alien world which had suddenly become antagonistic.”

“Edna felt depressed rather than soothed after leaving them. The little glimpse of domestic harmony which had been offered her, gave her no regret, no longing. It was not a condition of life which fitted her, and she could see in it but an apalling and hopeless ennui. She was moved by a kind of commiseration for Madame Ratignolle, - a pity for that colorless existence which never uplifted its possessor beyond the region of blind contentment, in which no moment of anguish ever visited her soul, in which she would never have the taste of life's delirium. Edna vaguely wondered what she meant by "life's delirium." It had crossed her thought like some unsought, extraneous impression.”

“She was seeking herself and finding herself in just such sweet, half-darkness which met her moods. But the voices were not soothing that came to her from the darkness and the sky above and the stars. They jeered and sounded mournful notes without promise, devoid even of hope.”