" "And were I in yours," rejoined the woollen-draper, "I should be doubly apprehensive, because he's a professed friend. “I was sick of the make-believe. ‘So this is Pottiswick’s French spy. 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. "You have said," pursued the widow, "that she, who has once erred, is irreclaimable. She possessed it, astonishing fact! She had summoned this energy so continuously during the past four weeks that now it was abiding; she knew that it would always be with her, on guard. "Her blood be upon her own head, then," replied Rowland, sternly. “Why don’t you wear your white blouse more often? It is the prettiest shirt you own.
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