. She was standing before a window, against the background of the rain-burdened April sky. 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. Lots of us are like that. Her clock had stopped—stopped at the very hour on which she had quitted the Mint! She had not the heart to wind it up again. Her fanciful imagination no longer drew pictures of the aunt in the doorway of a wooden house, her arms extended in welcome. She almost submitted to this ending of her adventure. “These are the playgrounds of life. “Now bite as hard as you can, John. I was to blame to carry the matter so far.
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