Lucy cringed, her eyes widening. 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. This way, my dear—and— you’ll excuse my mentioning it, but a quiet blouse and a little chiffon, you know, will be quite sufficient. Michelle had warned her of the girl, calling her “Bitchster”.
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