The smell of laundry detergent was noticeable, the bed sheets very tightly stretched across the bed, tucked in on three sides. “I hope,” said Miss Stanley, with dignity, and turned doorward with features in civil warfare. 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. Hurt beyond what he could imagine by the selfishness and pride of her forbears, whose fateful disputes had robbed her of the life she should have led, the plucky little devil had taken matters into her own hands. He dressed mechanically; so many moves this way, so many moves that. “Just think about what you are asking, John, please.
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