” He contradicted himself by plunging into an exposition of motifs. One transgression; he was sure of that. Diane Vorsack clicked her tongue in a “tsk”. 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 needed a man the worst kind of way—a man I could keep for at least six months. “Is your husband here to-night?” he asked. ” “Any one could see that the girls were ladies,” Ennison murmured. ‘A little promenade, madame?’ Madame Valade rose from the chintz-covered chair with alacrity and a little rustle of her silken petticoats. It proved to be a human head, though with scarcely a vestige of the features remaining. Jim is up to the neck in Mahatmas and Theosophy and Higher Thought and rot—writes letters worse than Alice.
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