“No, that’s fine. Well, I am Nigel Ennison’s sister!” “Oh!” Anna said. 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. Anna followed her finger, and looked back into her sister’s face. At breakfast both of them played their parts skillfully.
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