“And where,” he asked, “are my rivals?” “Deserters,” she answered, laughing. The late afternoon, en effet. 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. She packed her backpack with a change of clothes, some rags, and her old length of piano wire.
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