It was impossible. 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. ” There was a moment’s silence. “Why won’t you sleep in my bed tonight, Lucia, where 80 it’s warm?” He asked her one night, teasing but mournful, as she stood in her bedroom doorway in a long white gown. He lived on the seventh floor behind a winding set of hallways that towered over her in their grayness. He said nothing. ‘This is altogether insupportable!’ She dug a hand into the recesses of the petticoat of her riding habit and a moment later Gerald found himself once again confronting the barrel of her overlarge and tarnished pistol. . \"You know what I like about guys, certain guys?\" Lucy looked in her direction again. \"He's good-looking. McClintock could not browbeat him, storm as he might.
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