There was something
lacking. She grew distrait, monosyllabic, sat for long intervals
staring absently into the gloom beyond the windowpane. The Limited was
ripping through forested land. She could see now and then tall
treetops limned against the starlit sky. The ceaseless roar of the
trucks and the buzz of conversation in the car irritated her. At half
after eight she called the porter and had him arrange her section for
the night. And she got into bed, thankful to be by herself, depressed
without reason.
She slept for a time, her sleep broken into by morbid dreams, and
eventually she wakened to find her eyes full of tears. She did not
know why she should cry, but cry she did till her pillow grew
moist--and the heavy feeling in her breast grew, if anything, more
intense.
She raised on one elbow and looked out the window. The train slowed
with a squealing of brakes and the hiss of escaping air to a station.
On the signboard over the office window she read the name of the place
and the notation: "Vancouver, 180 miles."
Her eyes were still wet. When the Limited drove east again she
switched on the tiny electric bulb over her head, and fumbled in her
purse for another handkerchief.
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