She felt like Snow White in a secret forest house populated by dwarves. “So it seems that I was wrong. The place pulsed with music too loud to converse above. 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. He had barely settled at his desk in his library, when he was disturbed by two morning callers. It was a great weight from her shoulders to confide in another human being, and she suspected he did truly believe her. Ah, if I had written that!" "Don't you want to live?" "I don't know; I really don't know. ” “You! Why, you have been an angel to her,” he exclaimed impatiently. “You do not know what you say. "But you mustn't indulge these gloomy thoughts.
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