The slope was gentle and languid, like nearly every slope in that part of the state, but that day it was menacing with ice.

It was one smooth glaze over the macadam.

Jim Fitzgerald, a descendant of a fine old family whose type had degenerated, sat hunched upon the driver's seat, his loose jaw hanging, his eyes absent, his mouth open, chewing with slow enjoyment his beloved quid, while the reins lay slackly on the rusty black robe tucked over his knees.

Even a corner of that dragged dangerously near the right wheels of the coupe.

Jim had not sufficient energy to tuck it in firmly, although the wind was sharp from the northwest.
Alice Mendon paid no attention to it, but her companion, Daisy Shaw, otherwise Mrs.Sumner Shaw, who was of the tense, nervous type, had remarked it uneasily when they first started.