This short story by Kate Chopin, first published in the 1890s, follows Mrs. Sommers who comes into possession of $15 and spends the day indulging in luxuries like new clothes and dining out, experiencing feelings of joy, freedom, and status outside of her usual role and responsibilities as a mother.
From Designing to Marketing, all the projects that are associated are handpicked and displayed in this portfolio for a clear view of how my BTech profile would be.
From Designing to Marketing, all the projects that are associated are handpicked and displayed in this portfolio for a clear view of how my BTech profile would be.
The Golden Rules of Acquiring Wealth will provide you information on don't mistake your vocation, avoiding debt like a plague, perseverance is really another word for self-reliance, using the right tools, never getting above the business, learn something useful, do not scatter your power, be systematic, and so much more!
Composed by JK Durrani
Following short stories summaries such as:-
A cup of tea
The Devoted Friend
The Nightingale and the Red Rose
The Three Strangers
The Withered Arm
The poems here are being done for CAPE Literatures in English. I hope that the presentation helps all students who are striving for excellence as they pursue their studies.
If you do not get the sound clips, they are:
Earth Song by Michael Jackson
You Don't Bring Me Flowers by Barbra Streisand and Neil Diamond
Redemption Song by Bob Marley
The Golden Rules of Acquiring Wealth will provide you information on don't mistake your vocation, avoiding debt like a plague, perseverance is really another word for self-reliance, using the right tools, never getting above the business, learn something useful, do not scatter your power, be systematic, and so much more!
Composed by JK Durrani
Following short stories summaries such as:-
A cup of tea
The Devoted Friend
The Nightingale and the Red Rose
The Three Strangers
The Withered Arm
The poems here are being done for CAPE Literatures in English. I hope that the presentation helps all students who are striving for excellence as they pursue their studies.
If you do not get the sound clips, they are:
Earth Song by Michael Jackson
You Don't Bring Me Flowers by Barbra Streisand and Neil Diamond
Redemption Song by Bob Marley
The Story of an Hour Kate Chopin (1894)Knowing that Mrs..docxsarah98765
"The Story of an Hour"
Kate Chopin (1894)
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. Her husband's friend Richards was there, too, near her. It was he who had been in the newspaper office when intelligence of the railroad disaster was received, with Brently Mallard's name leading the list of "killed." 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 did not hear the story as many women have heard the same, with a paralyzed inability to accept its significance. She wept at once, with sudden, wild abandonment, in her sister's arms. 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 someone 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. What was it? 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 her breath: "free, free, free!" The vacant stare and the look of terror that had followed it went from her eyes. They stayed keen and bright. Her pulses beat fast, and.
The Necklace BY Guy de Maupassant She was one of .docxcherry686017
The Necklace
BY Guy de Maupassant
She was one of those pretty and charming girls born, as though fate had blundered over her, into a family of
artisans. She had no marriage portion, no expectations, no means of getting known, understood, loved, and wedded
by a man of wealth and distinction; and she let herself be married off to a little clerk in the Ministry of Education. Her
tastes were simple because she had never been able to afford any other, but she was as unhappy as though she had
married beneath her; for women have no caste or class, their beauty, grace, and charm serving them for birth or
family, their natural delicacy, their instinctive elegance, their nimbleness of wit, are their only mark of rank, and put
the slum girl on a level with the highest lady in the land.
She suffered endlessly, feeling herself born for every delicacy and luxury. She suffered from the poorness of her
house, from its mean walls, worn chairs, and ugly curtains. All these things, of which other women of her class would
not even have been aware, tormented and insulted her. The sight of the little Breton girl who came to do the work in
her little house aroused heart-broken regrets and hopeless dreams in her mind. She imagined silent antechambers,
heavy with Oriental tapestries, lit by torches in lofty bronze sockets, with two tall footmen in knee-breeches sleeping
in large arm-chairs, overcome by the heavy warmth of the stove. She imagined vast saloons hung with antique silks,
exquisite pieces of furniture supporting priceless ornaments, and small, charming, perfumed rooms, created just for
little parties of intimate friends, men who were famous and sought after, whose homage roused every other woman's
envious longings.
When she sat down for dinner at the round table covered with a three-days-old cloth, opposite her husband, who
took the cover off the soup-tureen, exclaiming delightedly: "Aha! Scotch broth! What could be better?" she imagined
delicate meals, gleaming silver, tapestries peopling the walls with folk of a past age and strange birds in faery forests;
she imagined delicate food served in marvellous dishes, murmured gallantries, listened to with an inscrutable smile as
one trifled with the rosy flesh of trout or wings of asparagus chicken.
She had no clothes, no jewels, nothing. And these were the only things she loved; she felt that she was made for
them. She had longed so eagerly to charm, to be desired, to be wildly attractive and sought after.
She had a rich friend, an old school friend whom she refused to visit, because she suffered so keenly when she
returned home. She would weep whole days, with grief, regret, despair, and misery.
*
One evening her husband came home with an exultant air, holding a large envelope in his hand.
"Here's something for you," he said.
Swiftly she tore the paper and drew out a printed card on which were these wor ...
The Necklace BY Guy de Maupassant She was one of .docxrhetttrevannion
The Necklace
BY Guy de Maupassant
She was one of those pretty and charming girls born, as though fate had blundered over her, into a family of
artisans. She had no marriage portion, no expectations, no means of getting known, understood, loved, and wedded
by a man of wealth and distinction; and she let herself be married off to a little clerk in the Ministry of Education. Her
tastes were simple because she had never been able to afford any other, but she was as unhappy as though she had
married beneath her; for women have no caste or class, their beauty, grace, and charm serving them for birth or
family, their natural delicacy, their instinctive elegance, their nimbleness of wit, are their only mark of rank, and put
the slum girl on a level with the highest lady in the land.
She suffered endlessly, feeling herself born for every delicacy and luxury. She suffered from the poorness of her
house, from its mean walls, worn chairs, and ugly curtains. All these things, of which other women of her class would
not even have been aware, tormented and insulted her. The sight of the little Breton girl who came to do the work in
her little house aroused heart-broken regrets and hopeless dreams in her mind. She imagined silent antechambers,
heavy with Oriental tapestries, lit by torches in lofty bronze sockets, with two tall footmen in knee-breeches sleeping
in large arm-chairs, overcome by the heavy warmth of the stove. She imagined vast saloons hung with antique silks,
exquisite pieces of furniture supporting priceless ornaments, and small, charming, perfumed rooms, created just for
little parties of intimate friends, men who were famous and sought after, whose homage roused every other woman's
envious longings.
When she sat down for dinner at the round table covered with a three-days-old cloth, opposite her husband, who
took the cover off the soup-tureen, exclaiming delightedly: "Aha! Scotch broth! What could be better?" she imagined
delicate meals, gleaming silver, tapestries peopling the walls with folk of a past age and strange birds in faery forests;
she imagined delicate food served in marvellous dishes, murmured gallantries, listened to with an inscrutable smile as
one trifled with the rosy flesh of trout or wings of asparagus chicken.
She had no clothes, no jewels, nothing. And these were the only things she loved; she felt that she was made for
them. She had longed so eagerly to charm, to be desired, to be wildly attractive and sought after.
She had a rich friend, an old school friend whom she refused to visit, because she suffered so keenly when she
returned home. She would weep whole days, with grief, regret, despair, and misery.
*
One evening her husband came home with an exultant air, holding a large envelope in his hand.
"Here's something for you," he said.
Swiftly she tore the paper and drew out a printed card on which were these wor.
I need a 1- 1 12 page comparison of these two writings MLAThe.docxsamirapdcosden
I need a 1- 1 1/2 page comparison of these two writings MLA
The Necklace
By Guy de Maupassant
She was one of those pretty and charming girls who are sometimes, as if by a mistake of destiny, born in a family of clerks. She had no dowry, no expectations, no means of being known, understood, loved, wedded, by any rich and distinguished man; and she let herself be married to a little clerk at the Ministry of Public Instruction.
She dressed plainly because she could not dress well, but she was as unhappy as though she had really fallen from her proper station; since with women there is neither caste nor rank; and beauty, grace, and charm act instead of family and birth. Natural fineness, instinct for what is elegant, suppleness of wit, are the sole hierarchy, and make from women of the people the equals of the very greatest ladies.
She suffered ceaselessly, feeling herself born for all the delicacies and all the luxuries. She suffered from the poverty of her dwelling, from the wretched look of the walls, from the worn-out chairs, from the ugliness of the curtains. All those things, of which another woman of her rank would never even have been conscious, tortured her and made her angry. The sight of the little Breton peasant who did her humble house-work aroused in her regrets which were despair-ing, and distracted dreams. She thought of the silent antechambers hung with Oriental tapestry, lit by tall bronze candelabra, land of the two great footmen in knee-breeches who sleep in the big arm-chairs, made drowsy by the heavy warmth of the hot-air stove. She thought of the long salons fitted up with ancient silk, of the delicate furniture carrying priceless curiosities, and of the coquettish perfumed boudoirs made for talks at five o’clock with intimate friends, with men -famous and sought after, whom all women envy and whose attention they all desire.
When she sat down to dinner, before the round table covered with a table-cloth three days old, opposite her husband, who uncovered the soup-tureen and declared with an enchanted air, “Ah, the good pot-au-feu! I don’t know anything better than that,” she thought of dainty dinners, of shining silverware, of tapestry which peopled the walls with ancient personages and with strange birds flying in the midst of a fairy forest; and she thought of delicious dishes served on marvellous plates, and of the whispered gallantries which you listen to with a sphinx-like smile, while you are eating the pink flesh of a trout or the wings of a quail.
She had no dresses, no jewels, nothing. And she loved nothing but that; she felt made for that. She would so have liked to please, to be envied, to be charming, to be sought after.
She had a friend, a former school-mate at the convent, who was rich, and whom she did not like to go and see any more she suffered so much when she came back.
But, one evening, her husband returned home with a triumphant air, and holding a large
envelope in his hand. “There,” said he, “here.
Although it was so brilliantly finelight like white wi.docxgreg1eden90113
Although it was so brilliantly fine
light like white wine splashed over the Jardins Publiques
had decided on her fur. The air was motionless, but when you ope
was just a faint chill, like a chill from a glass of iced water before you sip, and now and
again a leaf came drifting
touched her fur. Dear little thing! It was nice to feel i
box that afternoon, shaken out the moth
life back into the dim little eyes. "What has been happening to me?" said the sad little
eyes. Oh, how sweet it was to see them snap
the nose, which was of some black composition, wasn't at all firm. It must have had a
knock, somehow. Never mind
when it was absolutely necessary... Little rog
Little rogue biting its tail just by her left ear. She could have taken it off and laid it on her
lap and stroked it. She felt a tingling in her hands and arms, but that came from walking,
she supposed. And when
something gentle seemed to move in her bosom.
There were a number of people out this afternoon, far more than last Sunday. And the
band sounded louder and gayer. That was because the Season had b
the band played all the year round on Sundays, out of season it was never the same. It
was like some one playing with only the family to listen; it didn't care how it played if
there weren't any strangers present. Wasn't the conductor we
was sure it was new. He scraped with his foot and flapped his arms like a rooster about to
crow, and the bandsmen sitting in the green rotunda blew out their cheeks and glared at
the music. Now there came a little "flutey" bit
drops. She was sure it would be repeated. It was; she lifted her head and smiled.
Only two people shared her "special" seat: a fine old man in a velvet coat, his hands
clasped over a huge carved walking
roll of knitting on her embroidered apron. They did not speak. This was disappointing, for
Miss Brill always looked forward to the conversation. She had become really quite
expert, she thought, at listening as though she
lives just for a minute while they talked round her.
She glanced, sideways, at the old couple. Perhaps they would go soon. Last Sunday, too,
hadn't been as interesting as usual. An Englishman and his wife, he w
Panama hat and she button boots. And she'd gone on the whole time about how she ought
to wear spectacles; she knew she needed them; but that it was no good getting any; they'd
be sure to break and they'd never keep on. And he'd been so pa
everything—gold rims, the kind that curved round your ears, little pads inside the bridge.
http://www.katherinemansfieldsociety.org
MISS BRILL (1920)
By Katherine Mansfield
Although it was so brilliantly fine—the blue sky powdered with gold and great spots of
light like white wine splashed over the Jardins Publiques—Miss Brill was glad that she
had decided on her fur. The air was motionless, but when you opened your mouth there
was just a faint chill, like a chill from a glass of iced water before you sip, and now and
again a leaf cam.
Although it was so brilliantly finelight like white wi.docxgalerussel59292
Although it was so brilliantly fine
light like white wine splashed over the Jardins Publiques
had decided on her fur. The air was motionless, but when you ope
was just a faint chill, like a chill from a glass of iced water before you sip, and now and
again a leaf came drifting
touched her fur. Dear little thing! It was nice to feel i
box that afternoon, shaken out the moth
life back into the dim little eyes. "What has been happening to me?" said the sad little
eyes. Oh, how sweet it was to see them snap
the nose, which was of some black composition, wasn't at all firm. It must have had a
knock, somehow. Never mind
when it was absolutely necessary... Little rog
Little rogue biting its tail just by her left ear. She could have taken it off and laid it on her
lap and stroked it. She felt a tingling in her hands and arms, but that came from walking,
she supposed. And when
something gentle seemed to move in her bosom.
There were a number of people out this afternoon, far more than last Sunday. And the
band sounded louder and gayer. That was because the Season had b
the band played all the year round on Sundays, out of season it was never the same. It
was like some one playing with only the family to listen; it didn't care how it played if
there weren't any strangers present. Wasn't the conductor we
was sure it was new. He scraped with his foot and flapped his arms like a rooster about to
crow, and the bandsmen sitting in the green rotunda blew out their cheeks and glared at
the music. Now there came a little "flutey" bit
drops. She was sure it would be repeated. It was; she lifted her head and smiled.
Only two people shared her "special" seat: a fine old man in a velvet coat, his hands
clasped over a huge carved walking
roll of knitting on her embroidered apron. They did not speak. This was disappointing, for
Miss Brill always looked forward to the conversation. She had become really quite
expert, she thought, at listening as though she
lives just for a minute while they talked round her.
She glanced, sideways, at the old couple. Perhaps they would go soon. Last Sunday, too,
hadn't been as interesting as usual. An Englishman and his wife, he w
Panama hat and she button boots. And she'd gone on the whole time about how she ought
to wear spectacles; she knew she needed them; but that it was no good getting any; they'd
be sure to break and they'd never keep on. And he'd been so pa
everything—gold rims, the kind that curved round your ears, little pads inside the bridge.
http://www.katherinemansfieldsociety.org
MISS BRILL (1920)
By Katherine Mansfield
Although it was so brilliantly fine—the blue sky powdered with gold and great spots of
light like white wine splashed over the Jardins Publiques—Miss Brill was glad that she
had decided on her fur. The air was motionless, but when you opened your mouth there
was just a faint chill, like a chill from a glass of iced water before you sip, and now and
again a leaf cam.
Now I want you to re-read your favorite piece from the term and tell.docxjuliennehar
Now I want you to re-read your favorite piece from the term and tell me why you like it. If it's from early on, tell me how you see it now that you have other ways to think about it. If it's from later, did knowing some things from our assignments influence your enjoyment? Whatever else you say, please include some research. Look for interviews with the author, especially if the piece is specifically mentioned. Maybe you can find a book written about the author or that talks about the story/poem/essay. Maybe your research can be about the topic in its era. A sci-fi piece from the mid-century had certain societal expectations of what our future would look like. A story about the course of true love never running smooth is also a topic that has been viewed differently as society has changed.
Try to speak of your favorite piece with a scholarly enthusiasm rather than just an over-coffee recommendation style. Try to smoothly work the research into your own opinions. Give me two (2) or more pages of your best.
A Wagner Matinée
By WILLA SIBERT CATHER
I RECEIVED one morning a letter, written in pale ink, on glassy, blue-lined note-paper, and bearing the postmark of a little Nebraska village. This communication, worn and rubbed, looking as though it had been carried for some days in a coat-pocket that was none too clean, was from my Uncle Howard. It informed me that his wife had been left a small legacy by a bachelor relative who had recently died, and that it had become necessary for her to come to Boston to attend to the settling of the estate. He requested me to meet her at the station, and render her whatever services might prove necessary. On examining the date indicated as that of her arrival, I found it no later than to-morrow. He had characteristically delayed writing until, had I been away from home for a day, I must have missed the good woman altogether.
The name of my Aunt Georgiana called up not alone her own figure, at once pathetic and grotesque, but opened before my feet a gulf of recollections so wide and deep that, as the letter dropped from my hand, I felt suddenly a stranger to all the present conditions of my existence, wholly ill at ease and out of place amid the surroundings of my study. I became, in short, the gangling farmer-boy my aunt had known, scourged with chilblains and bashfulness, my hands cracked and raw from the corn husking. I felt the knuckles of my thumb tentatively, as though they were raw again. I sat again before her parlor organ, thumbing the scales with my stiff, red hands, while she beside me made canvas mittens for the huskers.
The next morning, after preparing my landlady somewhat, I set out for the station. When the train arrived I had some difficulty in finding my aunt. She was the last of the passengers to alight, and when I got her into the carriage she looked not unlike one of those charred, smoked bodies that firemen lift from the
débris
of a burned building. She had come all the way in a day coac.
Once upon a time there was a medieval author who wrote short stories that were distributed throughout the kingdom and now it is time to tell you all about his tale of success.
1 Miss Brill by Katherine Mansfield Although it wa.docxjeremylockett77
1
Miss Brill
by Katherine Mansfield
Although it was so brilliantly fine--the blue sky powdered with gold and great spots of light like
white wine splashed over the Jardins Publiques°-- Miss Brill° was glad that she had decided on
her fur. The air was motionless, but when you opened your mouth there was just a faint chill,
like a chill from a glass of iced water before you sip, and now and again a leaf came drifting--
from nowhere, from the sky. Miss Brill put up her hand and touched her fur. Dear little thing! It
was nice to feel it again. She had taken it out of its box that afternoon, shaken out the moth-
powder, given it a good brush, and rubbed the life back into the dim little eyes. "What has been
happening to me?" said the sad little eyes. Oh, how sweet it was to see them snap at her again
from the red eiderdown!...But the nose, which was of some black composition, wasn't at all
firm. It must have had a knock, somehow. Never mind--a little dab of black sealing-wax when
the time came--when it was absolutely necessary...Little rogue! Yes, she really felt like that
about it. Little rogue biting its tail just by her left ear. She could have taken it off and laid it on
her lap and stroked it. She felt a tingling in her hands and arms, but that came from walking,
she supposed. And when she breathed, something light and sad--no, not sad, exactly--
something gentle seemed to move in her bosom.
There were a number of people out this afternoon, far more than last Sunday. And the band
sounded louder and gayer. That was because the Season had begun. For although the band
played all the year round on Sundays, out of season it was never the same. It was like someone
playing with only the family to listen; it didn't care how it played if there weren't any strangers
present. Wasn't the conductor wearing a new coat, too? She was sure it was new. He scraped
with his foot and flapped his arms like a rooster about to crow, and the bandsmen sitting in the
green rotunda blew out their cheeks and glared at the music. Now there came a little "flutey"
bit--very pretty!--a little chain of bright drops. She was sure it would be repeated. It was; she
lifted her head and smiled.
2
Only two people shared her "special" seat: a fine old man in a velvet coat, his hands clasped
over a huge carved walking-stick, and a big old woman, sitting upright, with a roll of knitting on
her embroidered apron. They did not speak. This was disappointing, for Miss Brill always looked
forward to the conversation. She had become really quite expert, she thought, at listening as
though she didn't listen, at sitting in other people's lives just for a minute while they talked
round her.
She glanced, sideways, at the old couple. Perhaps they would go soon. Last Sunday, too, hadn't
been as interesting as usual. An Englishman and his wife, he wearing a dreadful Panama hat and
she button boots. And she'd gone on the whole t ...
Executive Directors Chat Leveraging AI for Diversity, Equity, and InclusionTechSoup
Let’s explore the intersection of technology and equity in the final session of our DEI series. Discover how AI tools, like ChatGPT, can be used to support and enhance your nonprofit's DEI initiatives. Participants will gain insights into practical AI applications and get tips for leveraging technology to advance their DEI goals.
Macroeconomics- Movie Location
This will be used as part of your Personal Professional Portfolio once graded.
Objective:
Prepare a presentation or a paper using research, basic comparative analysis, data organization and application of economic information. You will make an informed assessment of an economic climate outside of the United States to accomplish an entertainment industry objective.
Francesca Gottschalk - How can education support child empowerment.pptxEduSkills OECD
Francesca Gottschalk from the OECD’s Centre for Educational Research and Innovation presents at the Ask an Expert Webinar: How can education support child empowerment?
How to Make a Field invisible in Odoo 17Celine George
It is possible to hide or invisible some fields in odoo. Commonly using “invisible” attribute in the field definition to invisible the fields. This slide will show how to make a field invisible in odoo 17.
Operation “Blue Star” is the only event in the history of Independent India where the state went into war with its own people. Even after about 40 years it is not clear if it was culmination of states anger over people of the region, a political game of power or start of dictatorial chapter in the democratic setup.
The people of Punjab felt alienated from main stream due to denial of their just demands during a long democratic struggle since independence. As it happen all over the word, it led to militant struggle with great loss of lives of military, police and civilian personnel. Killing of Indira Gandhi and massacre of innocent Sikhs in Delhi and other India cities was also associated with this movement.
A Strategic Approach: GenAI in EducationPeter Windle
Artificial Intelligence (AI) technologies such as Generative AI, Image Generators and Large Language Models have had a dramatic impact on teaching, learning and assessment over the past 18 months. The most immediate threat AI posed was to Academic Integrity with Higher Education Institutes (HEIs) focusing their efforts on combating the use of GenAI in assessment. Guidelines were developed for staff and students, policies put in place too. Innovative educators have forged paths in the use of Generative AI for teaching, learning and assessments leading to pockets of transformation springing up across HEIs, often with little or no top-down guidance, support or direction.
This Gasta posits a strategic approach to integrating AI into HEIs to prepare staff, students and the curriculum for an evolving world and workplace. We will highlight the advantages of working with these technologies beyond the realm of teaching, learning and assessment by considering prompt engineering skills, industry impact, curriculum changes, and the need for staff upskilling. In contrast, not engaging strategically with Generative AI poses risks, including falling behind peers, missed opportunities and failing to ensure our graduates remain employable. The rapid evolution of AI technologies necessitates a proactive and strategic approach if we are to remain relevant.
Normal Labour/ Stages of Labour/ Mechanism of LabourWasim Ak
Normal labor is also termed spontaneous labor, defined as the natural physiological process through which the fetus, placenta, and membranes are expelled from the uterus through the birth canal at term (37 to 42 weeks
This slide is special for master students (MIBS & MIFB) in UUM. Also useful for readers who are interested in the topic of contemporary Islamic banking.
Thesis Statement for students diagnonsed withADHD.ppt
A Pair of Silk Stockings
1. Bibliographic Notes: First published in the early 1890s, and collected in Bayou Folk in 1894.
Little Mrs Sommers one day found herself the unexpected possessor of fifteen
dollars. It seemed to her a very large amount of money, and the way in which it
stuffed and bulged her worn old porte-monnaie gave her a feeling of importance such
as she had not enjoyed for years.
The question of investment was one that occupied her
greatly. For a day or two she walked about apparently
in a dreamy state, but really absorbed in speculation
and calculation. She did not wish to act hastily, to do
anything she might afterward regret. But it was during
the still hours of the night when she lay awake revolving
plans in her mind that she seemed to see her way
clearly toward a proper and judicious use of the money.
A dollar or two should be added to the price usually paid
for Janie's shoes, which would insure their lasting an
appreciable time longer than they usually did. She
would buy so and so many yards of percale for new
shirt waists for the boys and Janie and Mag. She had intended to make the old ones do
by skilful patching. Mag should have another gown. She had seen some beautiful
patterns, veritable bargains in the shop windows. And still there would be left enough
for new stockings – two pairs apiece – and what darning that would save for a
while! She would get caps for the boys and sailor-hats for the girls. The vision of her
little brood looking fresh and dainty and new for once in their lives excited her and
made her restless and wakeful with anticipation.
The neighbors sometimes talked of certain ‘better days’ that little Mrs Sommers had
known before she had ever thought of being Mrs Sommers. She herself indulged in no
such morbid retrospection. She had no time – no second of time to devote to the
2. past. The needs of the present absorbed her every faculty. A vision of the future like
some dim, gaunt monster sometimes appalled her, but luckily to-morrow never comes.
Mrs Sommers was one who knew the value of bargains; who could stand for hours
making her way inch by inch toward the desired object that was selling below cost. She
could elbow her way if need be; she had learned to clutch a piece of goods and hold it
and stick to it with persistence and determination till her turn came to be served, no
matter when it came.
But that day she was a little faint and tired. She had
swallowed a light luncheon – no! when she came to
think of it, between getting the children fed and the
place righted, and preparing herself for the shopping
bout, she had actually forgotten to eat any luncheon
at all!
She sat herself upon a revolving stool before a
counter that was comparatively deserted, trying to
gather strength and courage to charge through an
eager multitude that was besieging breastworks of
shirting and figured lawn. An all-gone limp feeling
had come over her and she rested her hand aimlessly
upon the counter. She wore no gloves. By degrees
she grew aware that her hand had encountered
something very soothing, very pleasant to touch. She
looked down to see that her hand lay upon a pile of
silk stockings. A placard near by announced that they had been reduced in price from
two dollars and fifty cents to one dollar and ninety-eight cents; and a young girl who
stood behind the counter asked her if she wished to examine their line of silk
hosiery. She smiled, just as if she had been asked to inspect a tiara of diamonds with
the ultimate view of purchasing it. But she went on feeling the soft, sheeny luxurious
things – with both hands now, holding them up to see them glisten, and to feel them
glide serpent-like through her fingers.
Two hectic blotches came suddenly into her pale cheeks. She looked up at the girl.
“Do you think there are any eights-and-a-half among these?”
There were any number of eights-and-a-half. In fact, there were more of that size than
any other. Here was a light-blue pair; there were some lavender, some all black and
various shades of tan and gray. Mrs Sommers selected a black pair and looked at them
very long and closely. She pretended to be examining their texture, which the clerk
assured her was excellent.
3. “A dollar and ninety-eight cents,” she mused aloud. “Well, I'll take this pair.” She
handed the girl a five-dollar bill and waited for her change and for her parcel. What a
very small parcel it was! It seemed lost in the depths of her shabby old shopping-bag.
Mrs Sommers after that did not move in the direction of the bargain counter. She took
the elevator, which carried her to an upper floor into the region of the ladies' waiting-
rooms. Here, in a retired corner, she exchanged her cotton stockings for the new silk
ones which she had just bought. She was not going through any acute mental process
or reasoning with herself, nor was she striving to explain to her satisfaction the motive
of her action. She was not thinking at all. She seemed for the time to be taking a rest
from that laborious and fatiguing function and to have abandoned herself to some
mechanical impulse that directed her actions and freed her of responsibility.
How good was the touch of the raw silk to her flesh! She felt like lying back in the
cushioned chair and reveling for a while in the luxury of it. She did for a little
while. Then she replaced her shoes, rolled the cotton stockings together and thrust
them into her bag. After doing this she crossed straight over to the shoe department
and took her seat to be fitted.
She was fastidious. The clerk could not make her out; he could not reconcile her shoes
with her stockings, and she was not too easily pleased. She held back her skirts and
turned her feet one way and her head another way as she glanced down at the
polished, pointed-tipped boots. Her foot and ankle looked very pretty. She could not
realize that they belonged to her and were a part of herself. She wanted an excellent
and stylish fit, she told the young fellow who served her, and she did not mind the
difference of a dollar or two more in the price so long as she got what she desired.
It was a long time since Mrs Sommers had been fitted with gloves. On rare occasions
when she had bought a pair they were always ‘bargains’, so cheap that it would have
been preposterous and unreasonable to have expected them to be fitted to the hand.
Now she rested her elbow on the cushion of the glove counter, and a pretty, pleasant
young creature, delicate and deft of touch, drew a long-wristed ‘kid’ over Mrs
Sommers's hand. She smoothed it down over the wrist and buttoned it neatly, and
both lost themselves for a second or two in admiring contemplation of the little
symmetrical gloved hand. But there were other places where money might be spent.
There were books and magazines piled up in the window of a stall a few paces down
the street. Mrs Sommers bought two high-priced magazines such as she had been
accustomed to read in the days when she had been accustomed to other pleasant
things. She carried them without wrapping. As well as she could she lifted her skirts at
the crossings. Her stockings and boots and well fitting gloves had worked marvels in
her bearing – had given her a feeling of assurance, a sense of belonging to the well-
dressed multitude.
4. She was very hungry. Another time she would have stilled the cravings for food until
reaching her own home, where she would have brewed herself a cup of tea and taken a
snack of anything that was available. But the impulse that was guiding her would not
suffer her to entertain any such thought.
There was a restaurant at the corner. She had never entered its doors; from the
outside she had sometimes caught glimpses of spotless damask and shining crystal, and
soft-stepping waiters serving people of fashion.
When she entered her appearance created no surprise, no consternation, as she had
half feared it might. She seated herself at a small table alone, and an attentive waiter
at once approached to take her order. She did not want a profusion; she craved a nice
and tasty bite – a half dozen blue-points, a plump chop with cress, a something sweet –
a crème-frappée, for instance; a glass of Rhine wine, and after all a small cup of black
coffee.
While waiting to be served she removed her gloves very leisurely and laid them beside
her. Then she picked up a magazine and glanced through it, cutting the pages with a
blunt edge of her knife. It was all very agreeable. The damask was even more
spotless than it had seemed through the window, and the crystal more
sparkling. There were quiet ladies and gentlemen, who did not notice her, lunching at
the small tables like her own. A soft, pleasing strain of music could be heard, and a
gentle breeze, was blowing through the window. She tasted a bite, and she read a
word or two, and she sipped the amber wine and wiggled her toes in the silk
stockings. The price of it made no difference. She counted the money out to the
waiter and left an extra coin on his tray, whereupon he bowed before her as before a
princess of royal blood.
There was still money in her purse, and her next temptation presented itself in the
shape of a matinée poster.
It was a little later when she entered the theatre, the play had begun and the house
seemed to her to be packed. But there were vacant seats here and there, and into one
of them she was ushered, between brilliantly dressed women who had gone there to kill
time and eat candy and display their gaudy attire. There were many others who were
there solely for the play and acting. It is safe to say there was no one present who
bore quite the attitude which Mrs Sommers did to her surroundings. She gathered in
the whole – stage and players and people in one wide impression, and absorbed it and
enjoyed it. She laughed at the comedy and wept – she and the gaudy woman next to
her wept over the tragedy. And they talked a little together over it. And the gaudy
woman wiped her eyes and sniffled on a tiny square of filmy, perfumed lace and passed
little Mrs Sommers her box of candy.
5. The play was over, the music ceased, the crowd
filed out. It was like a dream ended. People
scattered in all directions. Mrs Sommers went to
the corner and waited for the cable car.
A man with keen eyes, who sat opposite to her,
seemed to like the study of her small, pale face. It
puzzled him to decipher what he saw there. In
truth, he saw nothing – unless he were wizard
enough to detect a poignant wish, a powerful
longing that the cable car would never stop
anywhere, but go on and on with her forever.
Kate Chopin