On either hand two cinque-cento frescoes had been rescued from the whitewash.

They shone like delicate flowers on the rough, yellowish-white of the walls; on one side a martyrdom of St.Catharine, on the other a Crucifixion.

Their pale blues and lilacs, their sharp pure greens and thin crimsons, made subtle harmony with the general lightness and cleanness of the abandoned chapel.
A poor little altar with a few tawdry furnishings at the further end, a confessional box falling to pieces with age, and a few chairs--these were all that it contained besides.
Eleanor sank kneeling beside one of the chairs.

As she looked round her, physical weakness and the concentration of all thought on one subject and one person made her for the moment the victim of an illusion so strong that it was almost an 'apparition of the living.' Manisty stood before her, in the rough tweed suit he had worn in November, one hand, holding his hat, upon his hip, his curly head thrown back, his eyes just turning from the picture to meet hers; eyes always eagerly confident, whether their owner pronounced on the affinities of a picture or the fate of a country.
'School of Pinturicchio certainly!--but local work.

Same hand--don't you think so ?--as in that smaller chapel in the cathedral.