In short, Mrs. Pontellier was not a mother-woman. The motherwomen
seemed to prevail that summer at Grand Isle. It was easy to know them,
fluttering about with extended, protecting wings when any harm, real or
imaginary, threatened their precious brood. They were women who idolized
their children, worshiped their husbands, and esteemed it a holy
privilege to efface themselves as individuals and grow wings as
ministering angels.

Many of them were delicious in the role; one of them was the embodiment
of every womanly grace and charm. If her husband did not adore her,
he was a brute, deserving of death by slow torture. Her name was Adele
Ratignolle. There are no words to describe her save the old ones that
have served so often to picture the bygone heroine of romance and the
fair lady of our dreams. There was nothing subtle or hidden about her
charms; her beauty was all there, flaming and apparent: the spun-gold
hair that comb nor confining pin could restrain; the blue eyes that were
like nothing but sapphires; two lips that pouted, that were so red one
could only think of cherries or some other delicious crimson fruit in
looking at them. She was growing a little stout, but it did not seem to
detract an iota from the grace of every step, pose, gesture. One would
not have wanted her white neck a mite less full or her beautiful arms
more slender. Never were hands more exquisite than hers, and it was a
joy to look at them when she threaded her needle or adjusted her gold
thimble to her taper middle finger as she sewed away on the little
night-drawers or fashioned a bodice or a bib.

Madame Ratignolle was very fond of Mrs. Pontellier, and often she took
her sewing and went over to sit with her in the afternoons. She was
sitting there the afternoon of the day the box arrived from New Orleans.