The longing desire to bury her head in her pillow and "think out" her position had gone.

She did not apostrophize her fate, she did not weep; few real women do in the access of calamity, or when there is anything else to be done.

She felt that she knew it all; she believed she had sounded the profoundest depths of the disaster, and seemed already so old in her experience that she almost fancied she had been prepared for it.

Perhaps she did not fully appreciate it.

To a life like hers it was only an incident, the mere turning of a page of the illimitable book of youth; the breaking up of what she now felt had become a monotony.