leonardo da vinci last supper painting

me by the exigency of hunger.
Sundays were dreary days in that wintry season. We had to walk
two miles to Brocklebridge Church, where our patron officiated. We set
out cold, we arrived at church colder: during the morning service we
became almost paralysed. It was too far to return to dinner, and an
allowance of cold meat and bread, in the same penurious proportion
observed in our ordinary meals, was served round between the services.
At the close of the afternoon service we returned by an exposed and
hilly road, where the bitter winter wind, blowing over a range of
snowy summits to the north,
I can remember Miss Temple walking lightly and rapidly along our
drooping line, her plaid cloak, which the frosty wind fluttered,
gathered close about her, and encouraging us, by precept and