“Who?” She asked. Yet her hands dropped, and she sighed deeply. She was still good at following orders. Then, as she was in the act of turning reluctantly away, she noticed a thin crack between the door and the frame. 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. He would take her with great force.
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