Just beneath it stood the photograph of Lily Bart, looking out imperially on the cheap gimcracks, the cramped furniture of the little room.

Could Selden picture her in such an interior?
Gerty felt the poverty, the insignificance of her surroundings: she beheld her life as it must appear to Lily.

And the cruelty of Lily's judgments smote upon her memory.

She saw that she had dressed her idol with attributes of her own making.

When had Lily ever really felt, or pitied, or understood?
All she wanted was the taste of new experiences: she seemed like some cruel creature experimenting in a laboratory.
The pink-faced clock drummed out another hour, and Gerty rose with a start.