2. And Lady Trafford having been carried down stairs, and placed within it, the postboy drove off, at a rapid pace for Barnet. She loved her mother Marina more than any other thing in the world and could not bear to speak to her for a fortnight after being told her fate. It was decrepit and too large. He hesitated. She stole the opportunity to peer at his departing figure from the closed curtains of the front room window, his shoulders slumped forward, his posture and his ego slightly deflated. She was vehemently impatient—she did not clearly know for what—to do, to be, to experience.
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