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. At least I can’t talk to them. It was impossible to meet the motion bodily. “Dear old daddy!” she said, and was amazed to find herself shedding tears. Her fingers passed over a cunningly wrought surface of wood, with just the correct amount of protrusion, the precise colours of dyed leather, and cleverly gilded surfaces and neatly painted lettering. When he was concentrating, deep shadows formed under his gray eyes.
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