She reached the outskirts of Indian Spring and the high-road at about the time Mr.Brace had begun his fruitless patrol of the main street.

Far in the distance a faint olive-green table mountain seemed to rise abruptly from the plain.

It was the Carquinez Woods.

Gathering her spotless skirts beneath her extemporized brown domino, she set out briskly towards them.
But her progress was scarcely free or exhilarating.

She was not accustomed to walking in a country where "buggy-riding" was considered the only genteel young, lady-like mode of progression, and its regular provision the expected courtesy of mankind.