The Inheritors - Ford Madox Ford - Bog

"Ideas," she said. "Oh, as for ideas-" "Well?" I hazarded, "as for ideas-?" We went through the old gateway and I cast a glance over my shoulder. The noon sun was shining over the masonry, over the little saints' effigies, over the little fretted canopies, the grime and the white streaks of bird-dropping.