I turned to Aunt Agatha, whose demeanour was now rather likethat of one who, picking daisies on therailway, hasjustcaughtthe down expressinthesmall oftheback.
‘Why are pictures like this allowed?’ he suddenly cried. He had stopped in front of a colonial print in which the martyrdom of St Agatha was depicted with all the fervour that incompetence could command. ‘It’s only a saint,’ said Lady Peaslake, placidly raising her head. ‘How disgusting – and how ugly’ ‘Yes, very. It’s Roman Catholic.’e. m. forster
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