Under their cloud, and with the grief they shared, they were as happy as two could be in recovering one another as friends.
On the day of the funeral Aminta drove to the spot where they had parted--she walked to the churchyard.
She followed the coffin to its gravel-heap, wishing neither to see nor be seen, only that she might be so far attached to the remains of the dead; and the sense of blessedness she had in her bowed simplicity of feeling was as if the sainted dead had cleansed and anointed her.
When the sods had been cast on, the last word spoken, she walked her way back, happy in being alone, unnoticed.

She was grateful to the chief mourner for letting her go as she had come.

That helped her to her sense of purification, the haven out of the passions, hardly less quiet than the repose into which the dear dead woman, his mother, had entered.
London lay beneath her.

The might of the great hive hummed at the verge of her haven of peace without disturbing.

There she had been what none had known of her: an ambitious girl, modest merely for lack of intrepidity; paralyzed by her masterful lord; aiming her highest at a gilt weathercock; and a disappointed creature, her breast a home of serpents; never herself.