the awakening and selected stories by kate chopin

Once in a while he withdrew his glance from the newspaper and looked about him. His beard was neatly and closely trimmed. His hair was brown and straight, parted on one side. He was a man of forty, of medium height and rather slender build he stooped a little. He was already acquainted with the market reports, and he glanced restlessly over the editorials and bits of news which he had not had time to read before quitting New Orleans the day before. The Sunday papers had not yet reached Grand Isle. The day was Sunday the paper was a day old. Seating himself in a wicker rocker which was there, he once more applied himself to the task of reading the newspaper. He stopped before the door of his own cottage, which was the fourth one from the main building and next to the last. Pontellier had the privilege of quitting their society when they ceased to be entertaining. The parrot and the mockingbird were the property of Madame Lebrun, and they had the right to make all the noise they wished. He had been seated before the door of the main house. He walked down the gallery and across the narrow 'bridges' which connected the Lebrun cottages one with the other.

Pontellier, unable to read his newspaper with any degree of comfort, arose with an expression and an exclamation of disgust. He could speak a little Spanish, and also a language which nobody understood, unless it was the mocking-bird that hung on the other side of the door, whistling his fluty notes out upon the breeze with maddening persistence. 'Allez vous-en! Allez vous-en! Sapristi! That's all right!' A green and yellow parrot, which hung in a cage outside the door, kept repeating over and over:

The awakening and selected stories by kate chopin