Here was a thundering blow. 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. Five minutes ago, his butler had entered the green saloon, an austere apartment, with dark forest-green wallpaper flocked with a swirling design, and heavy mahogany furniture. Little more’n a week. "I can't help thinking of it, Sir," answered the widow. “Cheer up, Annabel. Every time he left a room, she chastised herself bitterly for her own profound weakness. You don’t deserve it, but he does. It seemed to her in her restored geniality that she liked Manning extremely. "That's it!"—eagerly.
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