The Ice Palace by Francis Scott Fitzgerald

  All night in the Pullman it was very cold. She rang for the porter to ask for another blanket, and when he couldnt give her one she tried vainly, by squeezing down into the bottom of her berth and doubling back the bed-clothes, to snatch a few hours sleep. She wanted to look her best in the morning.    She rose at six and sliding uncomfortably into her clothes stumbled up to the diner for a cup of coffee. The snow had filtered into the vestibules and covered the door with a slippery coating. It was intriguing this cold, it crept in everywhere. Her breath was quite visible and she blew into the air with a naive enjoyment. Seated in the diner she stared out the window at white hills and valleys and scattered pines whose every branch was a green platter for a cold feast of snow. Sometimes a solitary farm-house would fly by, ugly and bleak and lone on the white waste; and with each one she had an instant of chill compassion for the souls shut in there waiting for spring.    As she left the diner and swayed back into the Pullman she experienced a surging rush of energy and wondered if she was feeling the bracing air of which Harry had spoken. This was the North, the North—her land now!