“Her relation with her aunt was as superficial as that of chance lodgers who pass on the stairs. But even had the two been in closer contact, it was impossible to think of Mrs. Peniston's mind as offering shelter or comprehension to such misery as Lily's. As the pain that can be told is but half a pain, so the pity that questions has little healing in its touch.
What Lily craved was the darkness made by enfolding arms, the silence which is not solitude, but compassion holding its breath.
She started up and looked forth on the passing streets. Gerty!—they were nearing Gerty's corner.”