Ma took the announcement like a death blow, for it meant the end of all her dreams, all her joyous games of "pretend." Her mountains--those clean, green, friendly mountains that she loved with a passion so intense that she fairly ached--those and her caves, her waterfalls, her gypsy band, were to be taken from her.

She was to be banished, exiled.
She did not weep a great deal, but she seemed suddenly to grow older and more bent.

Listlessly, laboriously she began to pack, and her husband noticed with a pang that her hands shook wretchedly.
As for Allie, she told herself that this was the end.

She had tried to make something of herself and had failed.

She had crucified herself; she had bled her body and scourged her soul only to gain ridicule and disgrace.