Sometimes I feel this summer as if I were walking through the green meadow again; idly, aimlessly, unthinking, and unguided. - Kate Chopin

Edna wondered if they had all gone mad, to be talking and clamoring at that rate. She herself could think of nothing to say about Mexico or the Mexicans.

An indescribable oppression, which seemed to generate in some unfamiliar part of her consciousness, filled her with a vague anguish...like a shadow... a mist passing across her soul's summer day.

She was becoming herself and daily casting aside that fictitious self which we assume like a garment with which to appear before the world.