Expert answer:help with ENGLISH

Expert answer:How would you describe Mrs. Mallard. Do you like her at the beginning of the story? How do your feelings about her change (if at all) by the end?Discuss how the story surprised you, and how Chopin was able to create a feeling of surprise (hint: obviously the ending can be quite a shock; but where there any other moments of surprise?).This story is set during the end of the 19th century. Does the time period affect your reading or interpretation of the story? In what ways?
after_reading_the_story_of_an_hour_answer_these_questions.docx

kate_chopin_kate_chopin.docx

Unformatted Attachment Preview

After reading The Story of an Hour answer these questions
1. How would you describe Mrs. Mallard. Do you like her at the beginning of the story? How do
your feelings about her change (if at all) by the end?
2. Discuss how the story surprised you, and how Chopin was able to create a feeling of surprise
(hint: obviously the ending can be quite a shock; but where there any other moments of
surprise?).
3. This story is set during the end of the 19th century. Does the time period affect your reading or
interpretation of the story? In what ways?
KATE CHOPIN Kate Chopin (1851–1904) was born in St. Louis and named Katherine O’Flaherty. At
the age of nineteen she married a cotton broker in New Orleans, Oscar Chopin (the name is pronounced
something like “show pan”), who was descended from the early French settlers in Louisiana. After her
husband’s death in 1883, Kate Chopin turned to writing fiction. The following story was first published in
1894. The Story of an Hour Knowing that Mrs. Mallard was afflicted with a heart trouble, great care was
taken to break to her as gently as possible the news of her husband’s death. It was her sister Josephine
who told her, in broken sentences, veiled hints that revealed in half concealing. Her husband’s friend
Richards was there, too, near her. It was he who had been in the newspaper office when intelligence of the
railroad disaster was received, with Brently Mallard’s name leading the list of “killed.” He had only taken
the time to assure himself of its truth by a second telegram, and had hastened to forestall any less careful,
less tender friend in bearing the sad message. She did not hear the story as many women have heard the
same, with a paralyzed inability to accept its significance. She wept at once, with sudden, wild
abandonment, in her sister’s arms. When the storm of grief had spent itself she went away to her room
alone. She would have no one follow her. There stood, facing the open window, a comfortable, roomy
armchair. Into this she sank, pressed down by a physical exhaustion that haunted her body and seemed to
reach into her soul. 5She could see in the open square before her house the tops of trees that were all
aquiver with the new spring life. The delicious breath of rain was in the air. In the street below a peddler
was crying his wares. The notes of a distant song which some one was singing reached her faintly, and
countless sparrows were twittering in the eaves. There were patches of blue sky showing here and there
through the clouds that had met and piled one above the other in the west facing her window. She sat with
her head thrown back upon the cushion of the chair, quite motionless, except when a sob came up into her
throat and shook her, as a child who has cried itself to sleep continues to sob in its dreams. She was
young, with a fair, calm face, whose lines bespoke repression and even a certain strength. But now there
was a dull stare in her eyes, whose gaze was fixed away off yonder on one of those patches of blue sky. It
was not a glance of reflection, but rather indicated a suspension of intelligent thought. There was
something coming to her and she was waiting for it, fearfully. What was it? She did not know; it was too
subtle and elusive to name. But she felt it, creeping out of the sky, reaching toward her through the
sounds, the scents, the color that filled the air. 10Now her bosom rose and fell tumultuously. She was
beginning to recognize this thing that was approaching to possess her, and she was striving to beat it back
with her will — as powerless as her two white slender hands would have been. When she abandoned
herself a little whispered word escaped her slightly parted lips. She said it over and over under her breath:
“Free, free, free!” The vacant stare and the look of terror that had followed it went from her eyes. They
stayed keen and bright. Her pulses beat fast, and the coursing blood warmed and relaxed every inch of her
body. She did not stop to ask if it were not a monstrous joy that held her. A clear and exalted perception
enabled her to dismiss the suggestion as trivial. She knew that she would weep again when she saw the
kind, tender hands folded in death; the face that had never looked save with love upon her, fixed and gray
and dead. But she saw beyond that bitter moment a long procession of years to come that would belong to
her absolutely. And she opened and spread her arms out to them in welcome. There would be no one to
live for her during those coming years; she would live for herself. There would be no powerful will
bending her in that blind persistence 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. 15And yet she had loved him — sometimes.
Often she had not. What did it matter! What could love, the unsolved mystery, count for in face of this
possession of self-assertion which she suddenly recognized as the strongest impulse of her being. “Free!
Body and soul free!” she kept whispering. Josephine was kneeling before the closed door with her lips to
the keyhole, imploring for admission. “Louise, open the door! I beg; open the door — you will make
yourself ill. What are you doing, Louise? For heaven’s sake open the door.” “Go away. I am not making
myself ill.” No; she was drinking in a very elixir of life through that open window. Her fancy was running
riot along those days ahead of her. Spring days, and summer days, and all sorts of days that would be her
own. She breathed a quick prayer that life might be long. It was only yesterday she had thought with a
shudder that life might be long. 20She arose at length and opened the door to her sister’s importunities.
There was a feverish triumph in her eyes, and she carried herself unwittingly like a goddess of Victory.
She clasped her sister’s waist, and together they descended the stairs. Richards stood waiting for them at
the bottom. Some one was opening the front door with a latchkey. It was Brently Mallard who entered, a
little travel-stained, composedly carrying his gripsack and umbrella. He had been far from the scene of
accident, and did not even know there had been one. He stood amazed at Josephine’s piercing cry; at
Richards’ quick motion to screen him from the view of his wife. But Richards was too late. When the
doctors came they said she had died of heart disease — of joy that kills.
…
Purchase answer to see full
attachment

How it works

1. Paste your instructions in the instructions box. You can also attach an instructions file
2. Select the writer category, deadline, education level and review the instructions 
3. Make a payment for the order to be assignment to a writer
4.  Download the paper after the writer uploads it 

Will the writer plagiarize my essay?

You will get a plagiarism-free paper and you can get an originality report upon request.

Is this service safe?

All the personal information is confidential and we have 100% safe payment methods. We also guarantee good grades