‘What in the world is that?’ demanded Miss Froxfield. “Hey you,” he said affectionately. 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. She noticed an odd new gleam in Michelle’s eyes, a focus she had not noticed before. It’s my choice, Lucy. She would come back and write letters, carefully planned and written letters, or read some book she had fetched from Mudie’s—she had invested a half-guinea with Mudie’s—or sit over her fire and think. ‘No more, Saling, no more,’ said Mrs Sindlesham in accents of exhaustion.
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