The Story Of An Hour From Mrs Mallard's Perspective

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The Story of an Hour – from the perspective of Mrs Mallard

It was my sister who broke the news to me. As soon as I gathered from her disjointed announcement that my husband had been killed in a horrific rail accident, I felt myself collapsing into an infinite depression of emptiness, silence and sorrow. My heart and soul were thrust downwards as if a cumbersome mass was depressing my frame, as the eruption of grief forced me to express a plethora of tears into the sympathetic arms of my dear Josephine.

Despite the initial and genuine reaction to my sudden loss, I almost felt it my duty to weep for my deceased husband. Of course I loved him, as a companion; he was a means of fortification against the world and a way out of eternal spinsterhood and loneliness, and his mind and soul had now departed forever.

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Five minutes or so had passed, and I carried myself to my room with little motivation, where I sat in silence, reflecting on the news whilst giving my anaesthetised body an opportunity to recover from the horrific shock which was delivered earlier on.

After a period of reflection, I realised that a new beginning seemed to be commencing for me. As I glanced out of the window, I caught a glimpse of the delightful pastel-coloured blossom beginning to appear in the trees. The wildlife animated the street below and a lively new air swept across the room, ...

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