Lucy Tempest was, in Lionel's estimation, little more than a child, yet it was singular how he grew to love to talk with her.
Not for love of _her_--do not fancy that--but for the opportunity it gave him of talking of Sibylla.

You may deem this an anomaly; I know that it was natural; and, like oil poured upon a wound, so did it bring balm to Lionel's troubled spirit.
He never spoke of her save at the dusk hour.

During the broad, garish light of day, his lips were sealed.

In the soft twilight of the evening, if it happened that Lucy was alone with him, then he would pour out his heart--would tell of his past tribulation.

As past he spoke of it; had he not regarded it as past, he never would have spoken.