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. “Please forgive me—for one moment,” she sobbed. Even there a woman never gets a fair chance. There was something fatalistic about the letter H. The service had not proceeded far, when she was greatly disturbed by the entrance of a person who placed himself opposite her, and sought to attract her attention by a number of little arts, surveying her, as he did so, with a very impudent and offensive stare. “Thank goodness!” said that retreating aspect, “that’s said and over. Wild!" demanded Trenchard, as if he had formed a sudden resolution. “Compromise—and kindness. A moment before he had been a strong man, she had been in his power, a poor helpless thing. “No, I administered poisons to you according to the ancient tradition. It arises, I think, from an over developed sense of humour. My son went down after his death. “Do you think it is fair of you to persecute me just now?” “It is not persecution, Anna,” he answered gently.
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