Well, For Instance, When I

There Are Some People Who Leave Impressions Not So Lasting As The Imprint Of An Oar Upon The Water.

But The Beginning Of Things, Of A World Especially, Is Necessarily Vague, Chaotic, And Exceedingly Disturbing. How Few Of Us Ever Emerge From Such Beginning! How Many Souls Perish In Its Tumult! The Voice Of The Sea Is Seductive; Never Ceasing, Whispering, Clamoring, Murmuring, Inviting The Soul To Wander For A Spell In Abysses Of Solitude; To Lose Itself In Mazes Of Inward Contemplation. The Voice Of The Sea Speaks To The Soul. The Touch Of The Sea Is Sensuous, Enfolding The Body In Its Soft, Close Embrace.

Does He Write To You? Never A Line. Does He Send You A Message? Never A Word. It Is Because He Loves You, Poor Fool, And Is Trying To Forget You, Since You Are Not Free To Listen To Him Or To Belong To Him.

You Have Been A Very Foolish Boy, Wasting Your Time Dreaming Of Impossible Things When You Speak Of Mr. Pontellier Setting Me Free! I Am No Longer One Of Mr. Pontelliere's Possessions To Dispose Of Or Not. I Give Myself Where I Choose. If He Were To Say, 'here Robert, Take Her And Be Happy; She Is Yours,' I Should Laugh At You Both.

It Was Not Despair, But It Seemed To Her As If Life Were Passing By, Leaving Its Promises Broken And Unfulfilled. Yet There Were Other Days When She Listened, Was Led On And Deceived By Fresh Promises Which Her Youth Had Held Out To Her.