He was absolutely unable to focus his ideas. He had promised her some books, for she had voiced her hunger for stories. 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. I'll be quiet. Perhaps I may borrow yours one day?’ ‘Lucilla, you wretch,’ burst from the captain. Winds returned, the gardens withered, and roses would not bloom.
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