“Ssh!” said her mother, and then added, “A little natural feeling, dear. 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. She would not look at him, would not think of him; when her mind wavered, then she muttered to herself in the darkness so as to keep hold of her generalizations. Poor Ben was not so fortunate. He has three days to live. The room was reeling, or was it that she was going to faint? She recovered herself with a supreme effort. Hitherto in the world’s history there had been precursors of this Progress at great intervals, voices that had spoken and ceased, but now it was all coming on together in a rush.
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