And instead of accepting the situation gratefully, he felt vaguely hurt! One evening in September a proa rasped in upon the beach. 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. Her head dipped deeply into the current, and she narrowly escaped being swamped.
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