‘Yes, but quite my own fault. Wood made no reply; but, hastily kissing his weeping daughter, and bidding her be of good cheer, hurried off. It's big, thanks to you. His pale and boyish waist was nearly as slim as her own. 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. Only he hated the words he uttered, hated the blunt honesty which forced them from his lips.
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