“And by what right do you do anything of the sort?” “No right at all,” he admitted. The day had become suddenly overcast. Instead of which they walked sharply. His shirt was unfastened, his vest unbuttoned, his hose ungartered; his feet were stuck into a pair of pantoufles, his arms into a greasy flannel dressing-gown, his head into a thrum-cap, the cap into a tie-periwig, and the wig into a gold-edged hat. “I have no wish,” he said, “to altogether ignore the fact that you are my wife’s sister, and have therefore a certain claim upon me. 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. Go for it. ’ The fellow seized on this. ” “Eh?” “I’ve forgotten something.
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