Lucy had always before her the eyes that seemed to be shining through a mist, the large tremulous mouth, the gently furrowed brow.

Those strange forces--'grace'-- and 'the spirit'-- had been the realities, the deciding powers of her childhood, whether in what concerned the great emotions of faith, or the most trivial incidents of ordinary life--writing a letter--inviting a guest--taking a journey.

The soul bare before God, depending on no fleshly aid, distracted by no outward rite; sternly defending its own freedom as a divine trust:--she had been reared on these main thoughts of Puritanism, and they were still through all insensible transformation, the guiding forces of her own being.
Already, in this Catholic country, she had been jarred and repelled on all sides.

Yet she found herself living with two people for whom Catholicism was not indeed a personal faith--she could not think of that side of it without indignation--but a thing to be passionately admired and praised, like art, or music, or scenery.

You might believe nothing, and yet write pages and pages in glorification of the Pope and the Mass, and in contempt of everything else!--in excuse too of every kind of tyranny so long as it served the Papacy and 'the Church.' She leaned out to the sunset, remembering sentence after sentence from the talk on the terrace--hating or combating them all.
Yet all the time a new excitement invaded her.