Tag Archives: Project 1 Draft

draft, Week 7

Comparative Essay – “The Story of An Hour” and “My Short Lived Happy Ending”

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“The Story of An Hour” and “My Short Lived Happy Ending” both tell the same story, but with different narration styles. “The Story of An Hour” gives the reader a third person narration. In “My Short Lived Happy Ending,” the reader is given an autodiegetic first person narration. The difference in the narration can change how each story is interpreted.  In the original story, “The Story of An Hour,” the third person limited narrator actually shows the death of Mrs. Mallard, gives access to some of her thoughts, and a view of more than one room in the story, while in the retelling, “My Short Lived Happy Ending,” the first person autodiegetic narrator shows the reason of Mrs. Mallard’s death without actually showing her death, gives access to her thoughts, and a view of only the rooms that she is in.

In both the original and retelling the death of Louise was depicted differently. The original states, “It was Brently Mallard who entered, a little travel-stained, composedly carrying his grip-sack and umbrella. He had been far from the scene of the 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. When the doctors came they said she had died of heart disease–of the joy that kills.” In this quotation, the narrator is showing the death of Louise, but the characters of the story think she died of a heart attack caused by the joy of seeing her husband alive. The retelling states otherwise. “Then, as we reached the bottom stair, someone opened the front door with a key. My terror returned at the sight of the figure that entered. It was Brently. My heart begins to race and I feel a horrible pain in my chest. I grab my chest and fall, then just pure darkness.” At the sight of her husband, Louise’s heart began to race. She died of fear. Fear that her freedom will be taken away from her once more, since her husband wasn’t actually dead. “My heart begins to race and I feel a horrible pain in my chest. I grab my chest and fall, then just pure darkness.” This line was used to represent Mrs. Mallard’s death. It was difficult to include her death into the retelling, but her heart beginning to race and her chest pain was used to symbolize her dying from the heart disease which she had.

In the retelling, there is access to all of Louise’s thoughts during the course of the story. This shows her true feelings about her husband’s death. “Now that my husband is gone, I have no one to limit me on my actions. I rise from the chair, and fall back down. I begin to feel empowerment, excitement even. Most women that I know would never feel such a way after their husband’s death. ”Free, free, free!” I begin to whisper. My pulses start to race. The terror which had overwhelmed me has dissolved” With this access, the reader can interpret that her relationship with her husband wasn’t something that made her happy. It held her back from living her life. In the original, “Now 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 the 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.” The reader is given Mrs. Mallard’s thoughts, but only to some extent. They’re told that after the death of her husband, Mrs. Mallard comes to realization that she’s finally free. In both stories, the narrator shows the reader that Mrs. Mallard is full of joy after her husband’s death. One difference is that the retelling shows that joy in more detail.

The main differences between these two stories are the type of narrations. “The Story of An Hour,” is written in third person limited, allowing the reader to know what’s going on in multiple places of the story. “Josephine was kneeling before the closed door with her lips to the keyhold, 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.”  In “My Short Lived Happy Ending,” this part is told in a different view,” Josephine was behind the door shouting,” Louise, open the door! You will make yourself ill!” I ignore her warning. I am not making myself ill. My husband was who made me ill. “Go away! I am not making myself ill!” I shout in reply.” From Louise’s point of view she doesn’t know that her sister is kneeling behind the door, she only sees the room that she’s in.  In the original, the reader is shown both inside and outside of the room.

In writing the retelling of “The Story of An Hour,” the main goal was to give the reader Mrs. Mallard’s point of view. This helps clear up any confusion about what she’s actually feeling, or the reason for her death. Although, the original shows this, it’s not from Mrs. Mallard’s point of view. Her point of view allows the reader to fully understand her true feelings that she develops after she grieved her husband.

Click here for retelling draft.

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Project #1

“The Yellow Wallpaper” Johns Pov

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 “The Yellow Wallpaper” Johns Pov

The dream is finally coming together. The beautiful wife, the darling baby, and now we are finally able to afford the renovations that we’ve been speaking about. Sure it’s expensive, and we’ll have to be away for the entire summer, but it couldn’t have worked out better. I found a nice rental home for the full three months, and got a job nearby in the clinic.

Besides, ever since the baby has come along, Jane seems a little on edge, and perhaps a little depressed. This little “vacation” will give her a chance to clear her head, and get a little fresh air. In fact the cleaner air will be beneficial to both her and the baby, such fragile things.

We finally arrive at the house, and it really is perfect. It is set back from the road and is on quite a large property. It has the most beautiful gardens, Jane and the baby can spend hours out there in the wonderful summer air. Jane immediately says the house is haunted, but I know that is just her depression talking. It was sitting empty for a couple of years but that just led to the price being reduced, not to having ghosts in the attic.

We finally got settled. We chose the room on the topmost floor. It has lots of windows, providing plenty of fresh air and sunshine, practically the cure for her symptoms of depression! At first she wanted a room on the ground floor, but I talked her out of that in a hurry. Although she did make a good point about the wallpaper, it really is ugly. Maybe I’ll get around to repapering the room this summer.

Jane has been complaining about her “illness” as of late. What a silly girl, “illness” this is a mild case of depression brought on by the stress of giving birth. I have seen it before and will no doubt see it again. How lucky is she to have a physician as a husband?! With fresh air and lots of rest she will be back to her good old self in no time. She wants to write, and talks about visiting her cousins, but that must wait, rest is what she needs now.

The work at the clinic is really interesting, and challenging. It’s really a shame I have to spend so much time there, and sometimes even late into the night. I’m just glad that Jane is on the mend, this wonderful air is really doing her well. She does have some trouble sleeping some nights, but it’s just her nerves. It’ll pass soon.

My, how Jane can go on about the wallpaper. She speaks of its crazy patterns, angles, and curves, and how it makes her nervous. I would love to repaper it, but we are so very busy at the clinic these days. Besides, to repaper it would be giving in to her wild imaginations and make her fantasies more real. It’s really a great room, all but the wallpaper, but it’s not like we live here. Only for a couple more months. I’m sure she understands that.

Again, Jane speaks about visiting with her cousins, and again how I tell her she needs more time to rest. Her cousins Henry and Julia are very excitable folks and that is too much for her right now. I’m also having suspicions that she might be writing. It’s a good thing my sister was able to come out and help around the house. I’ll be telling her to keep an eye out for Jane’s notebook. Jane needs her rest, we are so lucky to have found such a great house for her to recuperate.

After the fourth of July, Jane’s mother, and sister spent some time here along with her sister’s kids, I thought the company would do her good, but she seems very tired out. If she’s still not 100% by the time we go back home, I’ll take her to see Doctor Weir Mitchell. He has been known to treat hysteria very effectively. But in the meantime I’m very glad Janie was able to stay, and help us out this summer. Jane has to focus on getting healthy, not on housework, and caring for the baby.

What a busy summer this is turning out to be, there is always something going on at the clinic, with lots of late nights. And when I get home, there is Jane’s silliness to deal with. Again she asked me about visiting her cousins but made my argument for me by breaking out in tears during our conversation. They’ll be plenty of time to visit once she gets better, now she needs to rest.

Last night I awoke to find Jane creeping around the room in the middle of the night. She decided that was the time to tell me she wanted to go home. She can be so silly, where would we go, the house is still not ready. In only three weeks we’d be leaving anyway. In the meantime she is getting noticeably better. She seems to think that  physically it might seem so, but mentally she is suffering. It is just that kind of thinking that is making her feel that way. After speaking about it, I’m sure she feels the same way I do about it. If she puts those thoughts out of her head she’ll be better in no time.

Jane seems to be doing much better, and is really getting her rest. Jane and I had a laugh today, about her getting better in spite of the wallpaper. I’m pleased to see she got over those ridiculous fantasies.

Boy, am I tired. After spending the afternoon, packing and getting ready to return home, and spending the whole night at the clinic, I hope to find the time for a short nap before traveling back home.

Finally I arrive home and head to bed, luckily that’s bolted to the floor and does not need packing. As I approach the room, I notice something very wrong, for one thing the door is locked, and from within there are tearing sounds and maniacal laughter. “Unlock the door” I yell to Jane to no avail. The strange noises from inside the room continue. I call to Janie to bring me an axe, I must get Jane out of there. Then I hear her speak, in a very gentle voice she says “John dear, the key is down by the front steps, under a plantain leaf”. 

She is just being silly again, “open the door, my darling” I pleaded. But again and again she says the key is downstairs. I send Janie to go check before taking the axe to the door and indeed she comes back with the key.

Bracing myself I open the door, and there is my wife creeping around the room amidst the ruins of the wallpaper. I call to her ask her what she is doing. She turns to me and I will never forget her face at that moment, the crazy look in her eyes. “I’ve got out at last,” she said, “in spite of you and Jane. And I’ve pulled off most of the paper, So you can’t put me back!”

The world starts going dark, what is she talking about? I have a very clear thought just before hitting the ground, that crazy women creeping about is not my wife, she looks very much like her, but that is not her!

 

 

Comparison

For my retelling I decided to go with “The Yellow Wallpaper” by Charlotte Perkins Gilman. I chose to rewrite the story from the protagonists husbands point of view, switching from autodiegetic, to heterodiegetic first person point of view. In its retelling the story changes from an increasingly unreliable narrator, to a slightly uninformed narrator. The new version shows us that even though the “illness” was taking over Jane’s life, her husband only saw it as an overreaction to a mild depression.

In the story, Jane spends a lot of time alone, and has a lot of time to dwell on her thoughts and imaginations. She tries speaking to him a couple of times, saying she wants to be in a different room, but he doesn’t go for it. He has different ideas on how to deal with her issues, but of course he doesn’t realize how bad it is for her.

In the story there are a couple of times when John seems to brush off her concerns. She tries to tell him what bothering her, but he finds an explanation. “..there is something strange about the house, I can feel it…but he said what I felt was a draught, and shut the window.” I tried to show how he really was trying to do the best for her and really felt he knew better. ” Jane immediately says the house is haunted, but I know that is just her depression talking.” He really feels that he is making all the right decisions.

A few times throughout the story John makes a decision for them. In the original it is clear that John made the decision and she was not all too happy about it. “I don’t like our room a bit. I wanted one downstairs that opened on the piazza and had roses all over the window, and pretty old-fashioned chintz hangings! But John would not hear of it. He is very careful and loving and hardly lets me stir without special attention.” In the retelling however, John says how “we” made the decision. “We chose the room on the topmost floor. It has lots of windows, providing plenty of fresh air and sunshine, practically the cure for her symptoms of depression! At first she wanted a room on the ground floor, but I talked her out of that in a hurry.” I feel this shows that while he is trying to do what is best for her, he doesn’t take the time to listen to her. What he thinks is right. He is, after all, the physician.

In the original, the story ends with the woman behind the wallpaper “getting out.” “I’ve got out at last, in spite of you and Jane. And I’ve pulled of most of the paper, so you can’t put me back!” Although it was in her head, i tried to leave in some of that ambiguity, allowing the thought that someone actually got out to remain in the story. “I have a very clear thought just before hitting the ground, that crazy women creeping about is not my wife, she looks very much like her, but that is not her!”

I enjoyed imagining John’s side of the story, he is a big part of the story and the reason she is in her situation. I feel the original made him seem a little uncaring, and I felt he deserved more credit. I think he really did care, but felt he was doing what was best for her.

 

 

 

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draft, Project #1, Week 6

The Woman

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There’s a woman in the room, although oddly familiar she is still a stranger. It is very intriguing watching her struggling to break free of the strangling ropes that bind us, how silly it is seeing her indulge her madness.

John, that is the name spoken from her lips, this man he loves her, or so it seems.  I hear bits and pieces of their conversations, sometimes they make sense sometimes not.  She shares her fears he shoots them down, he tries to save her. Is that not love? Even so, I can see the cracks starting to form on her countenance as she continues to divulge into her madness, which is slowly becoming more apparent.

He says, “There is nothing so dangerous, so fascinating, to a temperament like yours. It is a false and foolish fancy. Can you not trust me as a physician when I tell you so? ” She quiets down, but it doesn’t look as if she’s fighting her thoughts, she entertains them, feeds them. Foolish girl! Can’t you see there is no breaking free?

She writes a lot; I always see her writing in secrecy with the madness creeping out of her and seeping into the pages, her foolhardy thoughts out in the open for anyone to stumble upon. The cracks are quickly spreading all over her frail body, I am legitimately concerned seeing her thoughts pushing to break free to pierce into the room and consume the air.

She is much calmer during the daytime and more frantic at night. At night she sees me; am I a threat to her or is she a threat to me? John isn’t around much anymore. Can’t she see she is neglecting her duty of love for him?  There is another woman, John’s sister, keeping her keen eyes on her, Jennie. Can Jennie see the madness that I can see in her clearly now, it’s a shade darker than any black I have ever seen. It swells inside her, building momentum and seeping out of the  now countless cracks.

The black has now completely consumed her seeping out in a frantic rhythm. She’s coming closer, what is this? I cannot help but laugh loudly, I reckon she must have heard it. She is attempting to tear the barrier away. She is indeed the ‘Silly goose’ John claims her to be. This barrier is unbreakable. I will not allow her to consume me, I am happy where I am. This place is where I must remain, it is the only way for me to fulfill my purpose. For the life of me I cannot recall what this purpose is but I must remain here. I am sure of it. She promises to try again. There aren’t any worries on my part, she will never succeed. They never do.

She’s more frantic than ever, peeling off more of the barrier. My pleas are fallen to deaf ears as she desperately tries to break the barrier. Her duties, my duties long forgotten. She is me. I am getting angry enough to do something desperate. To jump out of the window would be admirable exercise, but the bars are too strong even to try. Besides I wouldn’t do it. Of course not. I know well enough that a step like that is improper and might be misconstrued.  I don’t like to look out of the windows even- there are so many of those creeping women, and they creep so fast. I wonder if they all come out of that wallpaper as I did? But I am securely fastened now by my well-hidden rope – you don’t get me out in the road there ! I suppose I shall have to get back behind the pattern when it comes night, and that is hard! It is so pleasant to be out in this great room and creep around as I please!

I don’t want to go outside. I won’t, even if Jennie asks me to. For outside you have to creep on the ground, and everything is green instead of yellow. But here I can creep smoothly on the floor, and my shoulder just fits in that long smooch around the wall, so I cannot lose my way. Why there’s John at the door!

It is no use, young man, you can’t open it! How he does call and pound! Now he’s crying for an axe. It would be a shame to break down that beautiful door! “John dear!” said I in the gentlest voice, “the key is down by the front steps, under a plantain leaf!”

That silenced him for a few moments. Then he said–very quietly indeed, “Open the door, my darling!” “I can’t,” said I. “The key is down by the front door under a plantain leaf!” And then I said it again, several times. very gently and slowly, and said it so often that he had to go and see, and he got it of course, and came in.

He stopped short by the door. “What is the matter?” he cried. “For God’s sake, what are you doing! ” I kept on creeping just the same, but I looked at him over my shoulder.

“I’ve got out at last,” said I, ” in spite of you and Jane? And I’ve pulled off most of the paper, so you can’t put me back! ” Now why should that man have fainted? But he did, and right across my path by the wall, so that I had to creep over him every time!

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draft, Project #1, Week 6

The Pulse of “Love” and Emotions

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It was a day with a clear blue sky. It was peaceful and I was glad especially knowing that my husband went off on a trip. Why do I say I’m glad? I wonder myself. Love is that sort of feeling of deep affection towards one another or the act of wanting to see someone by your side. Love however is something that I can’t truly define. I love my husband but my love for him fluctuates like my heart beat.

There was somewhat of a commotion downstairs. I questioned myself, what could possibly be going on? So I went downstairs to find out what was going on for myself. Judging by the commotion, I knew something unappealing was coming my way. That “unappealing” thought I had turned out to be my sister Josephine. She however, stood with a troubled and glum look as the beat of my heart slowly began to speed up.

I thought to myself, “Why does she have a depressed look on her face?” Josephine then looked at me with the eyes of a sloth. “What brings you hear with sadness my sister?” I said. As Josephine talked, I saw my husband’s acquaintance, Richards, standing by her. “Your
.husband…Is
.Dead.” she muttered hesitantly. Upon hearing this, I instantly wept into the arms of my sister. Slowly, but surely, I eventually calmed down. As I wiped my tears, I requested to be alone in my quarters. I dispiritedly trotted back up the stairs to my room with my heart beating in sync with my emotions.

I entered my quarters and immediately sat down on my armchair. The chair was very comfortable, as if it was drawing me deeper into its comfort; it felt like a seat of a royal horse drawn carriage. It felt like I was being brought more into the chair. This news I just received only recently, shocked me. The warmth of the chair was soothing and calming not only for my mind, but the beat of my heart.

The scenery was peaceful, the paragon of the spring season. Trees were blooming with new life while the spring rain was pleasurably redolent of that familiar scent. It was quiet here. So quiet, that I could faintly hear the sound someone singing from a distance and the sparrows chirping outside my window. I looked up; there was a serene blue sky filled with clouds that often collide with other incoming clouds to form larger clouds. At this point, my heart had settled down and I was calmed.

I was almost motionless; I shook periodically due to my sobbing. I felt like a sleeping newborn after crying for so long ; however, I felt calm. I exhausted all the stresses that broke me down. I looked away from the clouds thinking to myself, “If my husband is gone doesn’t this mean I’m free to do whatever I please?” Once again, the beat of my heart slowly started to accelerate.

I immediately rose up and fell in the course of that action. “I’m now free.” I thought to myself. I stared at my hands and whispered, “Free, free, free!” I then wept again; however, this feeling was different. “Am I actually happy?” I wondered. After so many years of being confined by this one man, I had finally been released from my chains. I glanced at the sky and spread my arms wide open in happiness. I welcomed the face of freedom into soul. My heart pounded against my chest in such a way that warmed and relaxed every inch of my body.

I acknowledged would be alone. Nobody would be able to hold me back from doing as I please. There wouldn’t be any strength in the world to chain me down and my actions. It felt like a crime to even think about something so distant. My eyes were opened with a flame that would ignite the path to the world I was about to enter. I began to look into my future as my heart raced with the excitement of a child.

I entered a world in I created. It was the utopia I have endlessly been dreaming about for such a long time. A world with no limits and burdens. It was the ideal world I wished for. I tranquilly walked around the empty house with my husband out of my sight. I then raced outside to be greeted by the nature of spring without restrictions to my autonomy. I leaped into the meadow where bright flowers surrounded me as the sparrows continue to chirp. I looked up to the clear blue sky that yielded a more definitive hue of blue than the ocean that surrounds the lands we walk on and thought, “this is what true freedom looks like.” I slowly closed my eyes and snapped back to reality. My world, the real world, and now the beat of my heart now resonated as they begin to fuse.

I then heard the voice of Josephine behind the door. “Louis, open the door!” she stammered. “I beg; open the door! You’ll make yourself ill. What are you doing Louise? For heavens sake open the door!” “Go away. I am not making myself ill” I calmly told her. I was consumed by mu dream of the utopia I longed for. “Free! Body and soul free!” I murmured repeatedly. Spring days, Summer days, Fall nights, Winter nights. All of those would be mine. I help possession of my future days and nobody else had any authority over that. I prayed for a long life, which was something that I never could’ve hoped for in the past. With that prayer, my heart continued its acceleration.

I now stood up and proceeded to open the door where my sister was kneeling behind. I looked at her with the eyes of a soldier who came back from a victorious battle. I treaded towards her and clasped my sister’s waste. With that, we proceeded to go back down the stairs. Freedom was the only thing on my mind. My heart raced faster than a Kentucky Saddler. The sight of Richards waiting for us at the bottom was the finish line. My heart raced faster and faster wanting to reach the line.

As we went down step by step, I heard the sound of a door opening. I look towards the source of the sound was coming from and I see the front door slowly open. A bright light quickly entered into the room through the door and slightly blinded my vision. I closed my eyes and opened them again only to see the brightness slowly fading away. There was a shadowy figure standing in front of me. “Don’t tell me what I think it is.” I screamed in my mind, “No no no no! My freedom! I felt the chains slowly come back for me and my heart raced even faster. My sense joy now turned into fear and confusion. As the shadowy figure came closer into visibiliy, my heart felt different. I felt weak and I begin to drop down, carrying my sister along with me. I heard a piercing scream that also brought my heart to a sudden stop. My eyes began to slowly close shut at the image of my husband, Brently Mallard. It was the joy that kills.

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Week 6

Project 1-The story of an hour by Keith Smith

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It was the worst day of my life. As I looked on, I could only feel the sadness of losing my friend Brently. But somebody had to tell her, and I was so glad that Josephine was there. Josephine was her sister, and I think Louise already knew that there was something wrong. Why else would Josephine and I appear at her home? But in a very careful way Thank God, she spoke slowly looking at her with teary eyes, as the words started to take meaning. Louise, I have some bad news, but I feel I should be the one to tell you. Brently was on a train and well the train had a problem. Louise I’m very sorry to say that he did not make it. At this point I looked down, I felt so helpless, and then I heard Louise cry uncontrollably and Josephine just grabbed her and held her close. The crying just continued and it tore me up inside because now the truth was so painful. My friend was gone and a lot of my associates that I had worked together with for a long time. Well I would never see them also.

Louise’s crying turned into sobbing as she let go of her sister. She then turned around and walked slowly to her room. Josephine decided not to walk with her, probably because she knew her sister just needed to be alone. I heard the locking of the door, which meant she was probably right. At that point I looked at Josephine, and said I ‘m really thankful that you came with me. I don’t think I could have done this. Do you think she will be OK. No she said, I mean nobody who loses their husband would be. I then realized the stupidity behind that question. It was just I had never been married. But she was right. At that point, I asked her if she was going to stay with her. She said maybe I can take her to my home for the night. I certainly don’t want her to stay here it might just make her even sadder.

Well, I think you are right. Maybe you could take her on a little getaway. It probably would be good for her. She just looked at me, and I could see the wheels turning as what she should do next. Yeah maybe a trip to the city or something, she said. But now we are going to have to make arrangements for his funeral, and then yeah a trip to the city. She started to sob, and then said I should go check on her. Yea that would be a good idea I guess, I said. I’ll wait here let me know if you want me. I was hoping she wouldn’t. She said Thank you I’ll be back. She then walked toward her sister’s room.

She knocked softly and said Louise, can I come in? There was no answer. She knocked again, but louder. Louise are you OK please let me in. Again there was no answer. I got really scared at that point, because Josephine had told me that Louise had a heart condition. I saw that Josephine started to panic, and I said can you hear her? Yes she is moving around. She then got on her knees and put her mouth to the keyhole and said excitedly, 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. And then I heard Louise. Go away. I am not making myself ill.

Well I am glad that she was alright, and my fear lifted. The emotions that swirled around me made me light-headed. And then I heard Louise unlock the door, and as she opened it, she came through and put her arm around her sister’s waist as if she was consoling her. There was something different about her. She walked erect and had this look like nothing happened. She almost seemed happy, but that couldn’t be. And yet the closer she came to me, she really seemed happy. I could not understand why though. Did Josephine notice it, I wondered.

All of the sudden I heard a noise behind me. It was the sound a latchkey and it was opening the front door. No it couldn’t be! They had confirmed his death in a second telegram. The door opened and to my surprise it was my friend Brently, and he was alive! And then I remembered his wife Louise and the uncontrollable sadness that she went through. Then I heard Josephine’s high pitched cry and I started toward Brently to take him outside, so I could explain to him what was happening. There was a thump and I turned around to see Louise had fainted and was lying on the floor. Brently rushed past me to aid his wife and yelled, get a doctor here right now, and before I knew it Josephine was out the door and in her car. I turned around and asked; is she OK, and Brently looked at me, his face lost all color, and he started to cry. What was going on? Why was he crying? He kept repeating himself through his tears Louise wakeup please Louise wakeup as if he was trying to will her back to life. Brently is she OK, I asked again. But he didn’t hear me; he just kept talking to Louise: Wakeup Louise Please wakeup. My mind started racing with bad thoughts and I got down to help Brently. C’mon let’s get her to a couch, but he just pushed me away and kept rocking with her head in his lap.

When the doctor finished examining Louise, he motioned for Brently and Josephine to come with him. They were both crying still but I heard him tell them, she seems to have suffered a heart problem and I cannot do anything else. He then said if what you told me Josephine was true she probably was overcome with joy that Brently was alive. She did go through an emotional ordeal, and maybe it was too much. I will make arrangements to have her taken to the morgue.

 

 

 

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