Knowing that Mrs. Mallard was afflicted with a heart trouble, great care was taken to break to her as gently as possible the news of her husband's death
It was her sister Josephine who told her, in broken sentences； veiled hints that revealed in half concealing. Her husband's friend Richards was there, too, near her. It was he who had been in the newspaper office when intelligence of the railroad disaster was received, with Brently Mallard's name leading the list of “ killed.” He had only taken the time to assure himself of its truth by a second telegram, and had hastened to forestall any less careful, less tender friend in bearing the sad message.
She did not hear the story as many women have heard the same, with a paralyzed inability to accept its significance. She wept at once, with sudden, wild abandonment, in her sister's arms. When the storm of grief had spent itself she went away to her room alone. She would have no one follow her.
There stood, facing the open window, a comfortable, roomy armchair. Into this she sank, pressed down by a physical exhaustion that haunted her body and seemed to reach into her soul.
She could see in the open square before
her house the tops of trees that were all aquiver with the new spring life. The delicious breath of rain was in the air. In the street below a peddler was crying his wares. The notes of a distant song which some one was singing reached her faintly, and countless sparrows were twittering in the eaves.
There were patches of blue sky showing here and there through the clouds that had met and piled one above the other in the west facing her window.
She sat with her head thrown back upon the cushion of the chair, quite motionless, except when a sob came up into her throat and shook her, as a child who has cried itself to sleep continues to sob in its dreams.
She was young, with a fair, calm face, whose lines bespoke repression and even a certain strength. But now there was a dull stare in her eyes, whose gaze was fixed away off yonder on one of those patches of blue sky. It was not a glance of reflection, but rather indicated a suspension of intelligent thought.
There was something coming to her and she was waiting for it, fearfully. What was it？ She did not know； it was too subtle and elusive to name. But she felt it, creeping out of the sky, reaching toward her through the sounds, the scents, the color that filled the air.
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 her 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.
There would be no one to live for during those coming years； she would live for herself. There would be no powerful will bending hers in that blind persistence with which men and women believe they have a right to impose a private will upon a fellow? creature. A kind intention or a cruel intention made the act seem no less a crime as she looked upon it in that brief moment of illumination.
And yet she had loved him —— sometimes. Often she had not. What did it matter！ What could love, the unsolved mystery, count for in face of this possession of self? assertion which she suddenly recognized as the strongest impulse of her being！
“ Free！ Body and soul free！” she kept whispering.
Her fancy was running riot along those days ahead of her.Spring days,and summer days,and all sorts of days that would be her own.She breathed a quick prayer that life might be long.It was only yesterday she had thought with a shudder that life might be long.
She arose at length and opened the door to her sister's importunities. There was a feverish triumph in her eyes, and she carried herself unwittingly like a goddess of Victory. She clasped her sister's waist, and together they descended the stairs. Richards stood waiting for them at the bottom.
Someone was opening the front door with a latchkey. 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 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.
But Richards was too late.
When the doctors came they said she had died of heart disease —— of joy that kills.

People read books and stories and watch movies because they can relate and are interested in what they read and watch. Stories give us details, make us hate or love the characters, and built up the story until we get to
the climax of the story. Movies give us more visual elements so we don't have to imagine scenery or any element we can't see. In film we also can see and relate to characters more because we see there facial expressions and whether we can like or dislike each character. We read stories and watch film to get to this climactic point. This is where a story is considered good or bad. A certain climax is where the film is usually giving "two thumbs up" or "two thumbs down". Kate Chopin's short story "The Story of an Hour" gives us details throughout the story to set up the sudden climax of Louise Mallard's death. In an adaptation of "The Story of an Hour" plot structure is a key factor in how a film version would be made from the story.
Kate Chopin's original version of "The Story of an Hour" was a great short story because it gave the reader great details that lead up to a great climax. My film adaptation would generally stay faithful but it would
stray away from the general setting of Chopin's version. Instead of a slave owned eighteenth century south, my version of the play would be held in present day in the 9th ward projects of New Orleans, Louisiana. Instead of Brentley Mallard who is Louise Mallard's husband, travels places across the world for his own pleasure, in my version Mr. Mallard would be in the marines and forcefully has to tour the world. He is a very jealous man so he tries to gives his wife, Louise Mallard, the world. He buys Louise all the gifts that she can imagine with all the money he gets from the marines, but he has a bad drinking problem. When he drinks he becomes violent and beats Louise. He also is constantly leaving because of his duties in the marines. Louise Mallard loves him for many different reasons. She loves the way he treats her when he is there, she loves the presents that he constantly buys her, and she loves their excellent sex life. There are also a plethora of things she hates about him. She hates that he is so jealous, she hates the occasional physical and mental abuse that he gives her when he is drunk, but she almost hates and envies that he has been across the world but he has never even taken her on a honeymoon.