The parlour was cluttered but cosy. She caught her breath, and her eyes were lit with a sudden terror. ‘The cat’s foot, Hilary. You did not complain then that I personated you—no, nor when Sir John came to me in Paris, and for your sake I lied. 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. Anyhow, they didn’t run about so much. I didn’t! I didn’t! After all—” For a time her mind ran on daintiness and its defensive restraints as though it was the one desirable thing. This is your moment.
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