Perhaps It Is Better To Wake Up

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.

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)

The Generous Abundance Of Her Passion, Without Guile Or Trickery, Was Like A White Flame Which Penetrated And Found Response In Depths Of His Own Sensuous Nature That Had Never Yet Been Reached.

Perhaps It Is Better To Wake Up After All, Even To Suffer, Rather Than To Remain A Dupe To Illusions All One's Life.

There Would Be No One There To Live For Her During Those Coming Years; She Would Live For Herself. There Would Be No Powerful Will Bending Hers In That Blind Persistance With Which Men And Women Believe They Have A Right To Impose A Private Will Upon A Fellow-creature. A Kind Intention Or A Cruel Intention Made The Act Seem No Less A Crime As She Looked Upon It In That Brief Moment Of Illumination.