She drew up a chair and sat down, putting her palm on the damp, cold forehead. There was granite in her face and agate in her eyes. Read that letter, Thames—my lord marquis, I mean. He put his arms around her in a circular embrace. Disperse in every direction. Now you can understand why I have been obliged to——” “Yes, yes, I understand that,” Courtlaw interrupted. The few pence left in her purse would only provide a very scanty lunch. 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.
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