Knowing that Mrs. Mallard suffered from a weak heart, those around her took great care to break the news of her husband's death as gently as they could. It was her sister Josephine who told her, in broken sentences and veiled, half-hidden hints. Her husband's friend Richards was there too, sitting close beside her. He had been in the newspaper office when news of the railroad disaster arrived, with Brently Mallard's name leading the list of the dead. He had taken the time only to make sure of it by a second telegram, and had hurried ahead of any less careful friend to carry the sad message himself. The house was full of hushed voices and careful, quiet steps. She did not hear the story as many women have heard the like, unable to accept its meaning. She wept at once, with sudden, wild grief, in her sister's arms. When this storm of sorrow had spent itself, she went away to her room alone, and would let no one follow her. No one tried to stop her, and the house grew quiet around her. She had not asked them to leave her alone, but alone she wished to be. Facing the open window stood a roomy and comfortable armchair. Into this she sank, pressed down by a weariness that filled her body and seemed to reach into her very soul. For a moment she sat without moving, her breast still rising and falling with the last of her sobs. Beyond the window the world went on, bright and careless, as though nothing at all had changed.