Take it," he cried, lifting the babe from the bottom of the boat, and flinging it towards its unfortunate father. 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. In the little apartment, under the gas chandelier, his inches and his stoop were certainly very effective. All was darkness, horror, confusion, ruin.
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