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Little did I imagine at the time that it was my own father to whom he referred. Something, then, to appease the wrath of God; something to blunt this persistent agony. The wine bubbled and seethed; and the exquisite bouquet of oranges permeated the room. Not daring, however, to listen to it, he ran on. 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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