She was becoming herself and daily casting aside that fictitious self…

As she swam she seemed to be reaching out for the unlimited in which to lose herself.

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

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.

Looking at his wife as one looks at a valuable piece of property which has suffered some damage.

The voice of the sea is seductive; never ceasing, whispering, clamoring, murmuring, inviting the soul to wander for a spell in abysses of solitude; to lose itself in mazes of inward contemplation.

She could only realize that she herself — her present self — was in some way different from the other self. That she was seeing with different eyes.