One-half of her mind was working clearly and coolly. The
other half was numb. There were things to be done. They
would take a day. More than a day, but she would neglect
most of them. She must notify the office. There were
tickets to be got. Reservations. Money at the bank.
Packing. When the maid came in at eleven Fanny had
suitcases and bags out, and her bedroom was strewn with
shoes, skirts, coats.
Late Monday afternoon Fenger telephoned. She did not
answer. There came a note from him, then a telegram. She
did not read them. Tuesday found her on a train bound for
Colorado. She remembered little of the first half of her
journey. She had brought with her books and magazines, and
she must have read hem, but her mind had evidently retained
nothing of what she had read. She must have spent
hours looking out of the window, for she remembered, long
afterward, the endlessness and the monotony of the Kansas
prairies. They soothed her. She was glad there were no
bits of autumnal woodland, no tantalizing vistas, nothing to
break the flat and boundless immensity of it.
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