Her mother, always veiled, sitting beside her, a thin, tall woman with passionate eyes and ever restless hands; the women mostly overdressed, and the sleek, prosperous men trying to look meek.

At school and at Girton, chapel, which she had attended no oftener than she was obliged, had had about it the same atmosphere of chill compulsion.
But here was poetry.

She wondered if, after all, religion might not have its place in the world--in company with the other arts.

It would be a pity for it to die out.

There seemed nothing to take its place.