A hot box had to be cooled at Wilmington.
Would it never get on?
Only in passing around the city of Philadelphia did the train not seem to go slow.

Philip stood upon the platform and watched for the Boltons' house, fancied he could distinguish its roof among the trees, and wondered how Ruth would feel if she knew he was so near her.
Then came Jersey, everlasting Jersey, stupid irritating Jersey, where the passengers are always asking which line they are on, and where they are to come out, and whether they have yet reached Elizabeth.

Launched into Jersey, one has a vague notion that he is on many lines and no one in particular, and that he is liable at any moment to come to Elizabeth.
He has no notion what Elizabeth is, and always resolves that the next time he goes that way, he will look out of the window and see what it is like; but he never does.

Or if he does, he probably finds that it is Princeton or something of that sort.

He gets annoyed, and never can see the use of having different names for stations in Jersey.