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. “Four,” Anna decided firmly. ‘The man’s gone,’ her old nurse told her, when she had recovered a little. For a time they walked in silence. She felt a semi-sharp object being gently impressed into her back. They had always gone without because of their secret lifestyle. As she talked she made weak little gestures with her hands, and she thrust her face forward from her bent shoulders; and she peered sometimes at Ann Veronica and sometimes at a photograph of the Axenstrasse, near Fluelen, that hung upon the wall. And, if I'd my own way, I'd drown 'em all like a litter o' puppies. The Victorians over-did it a little, I admit.
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