One of his converted Kanakas dropped in one day. ‘Where are you taking me?’ she asked, assuming a fearful accent. They found Ruth reading to Spurlock, whose shoulders and head were propped by pillows. He hadn't followed this angle of thought in ten years: what he might have been, with a little shrewd selfishness. 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. There she sought and at last found 107A, one of those heterogeneous piles of offices which occupy the eastern side of the lane.
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