There was a consciousness in the composed outlines of her face as she passed: the indifference was too perfect.

Let her hate him if she pleased.

It recompensed him that the air she wore should make her appearance more womanly; and that black dress and crape-bonnet, in some way, touched him to mournful thoughts of her that helped a partial forgetfulness of wounded self.
Rose had driven off.

He was looking at the same spot, where Caroline's hand waved from her carriage.

Juliana was not seen.