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“You needn’t say a word more,” Mr. 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. And one must—some of it must slip through one’s fingers. “I am so sorry to have startled you,” she said, “but I was startled myself. I struck him across the face, twisted the steering wheel of the motor, sprang out myself, and left him for dead on the road with the motor on top of him. You’ll end there one day, mark my words. The strong potation he had taken, combined with fatigue and anxiety he had previously undergone, made him oversleep himself, and when he awoke it was just beginning to grow light. I’m talking to you now as though you had all the wisdom and charity in the world. Spurling, (for she it was,) either by her attractions of purse or person, had succeeded in moving the stony heart of Mr. “Thank God,” he exclaimed. On beholding the intruders, his fears changed to exultation, and he uttered a roar of satisfaction as he glared at them, which could only be likened to the cry of some savage denizen of the plains. ” “Right,” he answered. You have misunderstood.
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