I walked up the hill and watched the sun begin to set, lighting fire to the sky. Oranges, reds, and yellows crisscrossed the sky like a watercolor painting. The house ...
The bird that would soar above the level plain of tradition and prejudice must have strong wings. It is a sad spectacle to see the weaklings bruised, exhausted, fluttering back to earth. — Kate Chopin, The Awakening
