“Good-by, Armand,” she moaned.He did not answer her. That was his last blow at fate.
Désirée went in search of her child. Zandrine was pacing the sombre gallery with it.She took the little one from the nurse’s arms with no word of explanation, anddescending the steps, walked away, under the live-oak branches.
It was an October afternoon; the sun was just sinking. Out in the still fields thenegroes were picking cotton.
Desiree had not changed the thin white garment nor the slippers which she wore.Her hair was uncovered and the sun’s rays brought a golden gleam from its brownmeshes. She did not take the broad, beaten road which led to the far-off plantation ofValmondé. She walked across a deserted field, where the stubble bruised her tenderfeet, so delicately shod, and tore her thin gown to shreds.
She disappeared among the reeds and willows that grew thick along the banks ofthe deep, sluggish bayou; and she did not come back again.
He might have felt badly and regretted blaming his wife and sending her and his child away. On the other hand, he, being the proud man he was, might have burned the letter and told no one of this information. Chopin leaves Armand's reaction up to the reader.
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