So The Storm Passed And Every One

She Looked Into The Distance, And The Old Terror Flamed Up For An Instant, Then Sank Again. Edna Heard Her Father's Voice And Her Sister Margaret's. She Heard The Barking Of An Old Dog That Was Chained To The Sycamore Tree. The Spurs Of The Cavalry Officer Clanged As He Walked Across The Porch. There Was The Hum Of Bees, And The Musky Odor Of Pinks Filled The Air. (last Lines)

She Was Moved By A Kind Of Commiseration... 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.

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.

But The Beginning Of Things, Of A World Especially, Is Necessarily Vague, Tangled, Chaotic, And Exceedingly Disturbing. How Few Of Us Ever Emerge From Such Beginning! How Many Souls Perish In Its Tumult!

In Short, Mrs. Pontellier Was Beginning To Realize Her Position In The Universe As A Human Being, And To Recongize Her Relations As An Individual To The World Within And About Her. This May Seem Like A Ponderous Weight Of Wisdom To Descend Upon The Soul Of A Young Woman Of Twenty-eight - Perhaps More Wisdom Than The Holy Ghost Is Usually Pleased To Vouchsafe To Any Woman.