She heard her husband’s heavy tread descending the stairs, and the wheels of his carriage as he drove off. Because here was the haven for which she had been blindly groping: the positive abolition of all her father's rights in her—the right to drag her back. He was reaching wearily for some kind of buffer to his harrying conscience. She paced restlessly to the door and back again, biting her tongue on the hot words begging to be uttered. She warmed to him fast, her anger was much harder to carry than the pleasant everyday neutrality of affection. “I’ve got nothing in the world to pack with except a toy size portmanteau.
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