The pity is to get things out of proportion.

It's like noticing the noises people make when they eat, or men spitting; or, in short, any small thing that gets on one's nerves." Rachel seemed to be inattentive to these remarks.
"Tell me," she said suddenly, "what are those women in Piccadilly ?" "In Picadilly?
They are prostituted," said Helen.
"It _is_ terrifying--it _is_ disgusting," Rachel asserted, as if she included Helen in the hatred.
"It is," said Helen.

"But--" "I did like him," Rachel mused, as if speaking to herself.

"I wanted to talk to him; I wanted to know what he'd done.

The women in Lancashire--" It seemed to her as she recalled their talk that there was something lovable about Richard, good in their attempted friendship, and strangely piteous in the way they had parted.
The softening of her mood was apparent to Helen.
"You see," she said, "you must take things as they are; and if you want friendship with men you must run risks.