Stanley was inclined to think the censorship should be extended to the supply of what he styled latter-day fiction; good wholesome stories were being ousted, he said, by “vicious, corrupting stuff” that “left a bad taste in the mouth. There was no one to be seen. “I am sure,” she said, “that you mean to stay until you are turned out. ” She stepped into the curtains as Martin stared daggers. I thank God for the beauty you love and the faults you love. And you have stolen my dagger.
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