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From "The Story of an Hour" by
Kate Chopin
Someone 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 know
there had been one. He stood amazed
at Josephine's piercing cry; at
Richard's quick motion to screen him
from the view of his wife.
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