"I'll do more.

I'll go out to his wonderful West and see what he meant by them." Carley Burch possessed in full degree the prevailing modern craze for speed.

She loved a motor-car ride at sixty miles an hour along a smooth, straight road, or, better, on the level seashore of Ormond, where on moonlight nights the white blanched sand seemed to flash toward her.
Therefore quite to her taste was the Twentieth Century Limited which was hurtling her on the way to Chicago.

The unceasingly smooth and even rush of the train satisfied something in her.

An old lady sitting in an adjoining seat with a companion amused Carley by the remark: "I wish we didn't go so fast.