She passed people in the streets and regarded them with a quickening apprehension, once or twice came girls dressed in slatternly finery, going toward Regent Street from out these places. He knew she would be there, practicing alone in 118. 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. Her husband stared at her over the candle flame. I would even have taken a place as waitress in a tea shop. His eyes looked a little bloodshot to her; his face had lost something of its ruddy freshness.
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