As she swam she seemed to be reaching out for the unlimited in which…

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.

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

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.

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

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.