A delicate flush of colour streamed into her cheeks. Manning told her he loved beauty, and extorted a similar admission from her; he then expatiated upon his own love of beauty. For a time he would be the grim Protestant Flagellant, pursuing the idea of self-castigation. She found herself mildly entertained by staring at the houses through the rain as she walked home, all cast in a gray blurry film noir gauze of rain. “You see, it comes after all,” she continued, “from certain original convictions which have become my religion. Would she were alive to back my suit!" "This is beyond all endurance," said Winifred, striving to withdraw her hand. She pointed suddenly at the portrait. The condition of the rooms was indescribably filthy and disgusting; nor were the habits of the occupants much more cleanly. “Why not?” He asked.
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