Jacques, Jacques!’ His face was white, but his eyes were open, if a trifle glazed. Good night. The latter no sooner beheld him than he dashed hastily into an adjoining room. “Go on,” he said. Her fanciful imagination no longer drew pictures of the aunt in the doorway of a wooden house, her arms extended in welcome. Lucy blushed from toes to forehead, feeling her pace accelerate. 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.
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