She tightened her bandage and sat back, biting her lip. 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. Perhaps that was the reason that they both remained standing. Her face reminded him of a delicate unglazed porcelain cup, filled with blond wine. We two. I’ll do it.
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