It’s not far from twilight. Lucy was silent. You get one, you get them all. 47 was no more than a sort of railway compartment on the way to that. Niece and aunt regarded each other for a moment over their pockethandkerchiefs with watery but antagonistic eyes, each far too profoundly moved to see the absurdity of the position. And turning again, as if the emotions she had churned up kept her on the move, she paced back to the mantel and there stopped, staring at her own reflection in the tarnished mirror. Listen to your mother's prayers, and do not let her die brokenhearted.
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