She missed him the days when some pretext served to take him away from her, just as one misses the sun on a cloudy day without having thought much about the sun when it was shining.
Edna began to feel like one who awakens gradually out of a dream, a delicious, grotesque, impossible dream, to feel again the realities pressing into her soul.
No multitude of words could have been more significant than those moments of silence, or more pregnant with the first-felt throbbings of desire.
But for that matter, the Creole husband is never jealous; with him the gangrene passion is one which has become dwarfed by disuse.
The voice of the sea speaks to the soul. The touch of the sea is sensuous, enfolding the body in its soft, close embrace.
The persistence of the infatuation lent it an aspect of genuineness. The hopelessness of it colored it with the lofty tones of great passion.
Pirate gold isn’t a thing to be hoarded or utilized. It is something to squander and throw to the four winds, for the fun of seeing the golden specks fly.
At a very early period she had apprehended instinctively the dual life—that outward existence which conforms, the inward life which questions.
The past was nothing to her; offered no lesson which she was willing to heed.
Who can tell what metals the gods use in forging the subtle bond which we call sympathy, which we might as well call love.
The present alone was significant; was hers, to torture her as it was doing then with the biting conviction that she had lost that which she had held, that she had been denied that which her impassioned, newly awakened being demanded.
Don't you think, that we make too much of our individual trials. We are all so prone to believe our own burden heavier than our neighbor's.
The future was a mystery which she never attempted to penetrate.
A bolt struck a tall chinaberry tree at the edge of the field. It filled all visible space with a blinding glare and the crash seemed to invade the very boards they stood upon.
When the doctors came they said she had died of heart disease--of the joy that kills.
She would, through habit, have yielded to his desire; not with any sense of submission or obedience to his compelling wishes, but unthinkingly, as we walk, move, sit, stand, go through the daily treadmill of the life which has been portioned out to us.
The stillest hour of the night had come, the hour before dawn, when the world seems to hold its breath.