Shutting out even the slightest view of those far-off "Delectable Mountains," towards which they had been journeying.

In the face of Jack's misfortune and all that he was giving up, her part of the sacrifice sank into comparative insignificance.

Her suffering for him was so great that it dulled the sharpness of her own renunciations, and even dulled her disappointment for Joyce.

The year in Paris had meant as much to her as the course at Warwick Hall had meant to Mary.
All through the trip she sat going round and round the same circle of thoughts, ending always with the hopeless cry, "Oh, _why_ did it have to be?
It isn't right that _he_ should have to suffer so!" Once when the train stopped for some time to take water and wait on a switch for the passing of a fast express, she opened her suit-case and took out her journal and fountain-pen.

Going on with the record from the place where she had dropped it the day before when Jack's letter interrupted it, she chronicled the receipt of the check, the shopping expedition that followed, and the gay outing afterward in the touring-car.