No more tears, no more leaning upon others, no more expecting anything from anybody.

She was not dramatic in her new independence; she did not cry defiance to the golden mist or the larks or the hidden sun; she only walked on and on, stumping forward in her clumsy boots, her eyes hard and unseeing, her hands clasped behind her back.
Her expectation of happiness in her opening life that had been so strong with her that other day when she had looked down upon Polchester was gone.

She expected nothing, she wanted nothing.

Her only thought was that she would never yield to any one, never care for any one, never give to any one the opportunity of touching her.

At moments through the mist came the figure of the cook, stout, florid, triumphant.