It was as though a herald read some proclamation for his master who was approaching the gates of the city.
The hymns and prayers that followed seemed to have no importance.

The hymns happened on that day to be familiar ones that Maggie had always known: "As pants the hart for cooling streams," "Just as I am, without one plea" and "Jerusalem the golden." These were sung, of course, slowly, badly and sentimentally, the harmonium screaming in amazing discords, and the deep and untuneful voices of some members of the congregation drowning the ladies and placing a general discord upon everything.

Especially distressing was Aunt Elizabeth, who evidently loved to sing hymns but had little idea of melody or rhythm, and was influenced entirely by a copious sentiment which overflowed into her eyes and trembled at the tips of her fingers.
All this was as naive and awkward as is always the singing of English hymns in English churches by English citizens.

The chapel, which had seemed before to be rising to some strange atmosphere of expectation, slipped back now to its native ugliness and sterility.

The personality was in the man and in the man alone.
Maggie looked about her, at the faces of the women who surrounded her.
They were grey, strained, ugly in the poor light of the building.