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 will find the proof in McClintock's safe. But at the word “home” she turned again. ” She turned her face to the fire, gripped her hands upon her elbows, and drew her thin shoulders together in a shrug. ‘Point it at me. The trader you spoke about: he disliked your father, didn't he? Well, he probably played your father a horrible practical joke. As she went on, the story began to sound more and more like a recitation. Cathy had not even noticed that she herself was wet and trailing water everywhere. “I hope,” said Miss Stanley, with dignity, and turned doorward with features in civil warfare. Always. I thought that you were he.
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