‘First I must see Jacques, and—’ ‘No need for that,’ intervened Roding, grasping her arm and trying to drag her to the door. That he was hot and breathless was of no matter; in that moment he would have faced a dozen Samsons. 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 sang to him, and he was satisfied. The few whites he had ever known generally offered to pet him when they really wanted to kick him. I expect you had been snubbing him terribly.
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