The Remains of the Day (1989)
Kazuo Ishiguro

      "It is from Mrs. Johnson, a companion of my aunt.   She says my aunt died the day before yesterday."  She paused a moment, then said: "The funeral is to take place tomorrow.  I wonder if it might be possible for me to take the day off."
          "I am sure that could be arranged, Miss Kenton."
          "Thank you, Mr. Stevens. Forgive me, but perhaps I may now have a few moments alone."
          "Of course, Miss Kenton."
           I made my exit, and it was not until after I done so that it occurred to me I had not actually offered her my condolences.  I could well imagine the blow the news would be to her, her aunt having been, to all intents and purposes, like a mother to her, and I paused out in the corridor, wondering if I should go back, knock and make my omission.  But then it occurred to me that if I were to do so, I might easily intrude upon her private grief.  Indeed, it was not impossible that Miss Kenton, at that very moment, and only a few feet from me, was actually crying.  The thought provoked a strange feeling to rise within me, causing me to stand there hovering in the corridor for some moments.  But eventually I judged it best to await another opportunity to express my sympathy and went on my way.

[Kazuo Ishiguro, The Remains of the Day.  New York: Knopf, 1989.]