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. No matter how many books one read, each was different, as each human being was different. It is that, is it not?” “No,” he answered readily. She stared out of the paned glass window, watching the trees being blown bare by the gale force. " "Detained!" echoed Marvel. The first time, I overlooked the offence; but the second time, when I had planned to break open the house of his master, the fellow who visited you to-night,—Wood, the carpenter of Wych Street,—he betrayed me. He was speechless.
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