“This is my way back to my side of the Park,” she said. I can bear anything but suspense. The cold air gave her gooseflesh under her red brocade dress as she slipped outside. 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. You had better go to bed. . “Yes, I remember,” she said.
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