His face was aquiline but sweet, the years had not yet taken the blush from his cheeks and his lips were similarly rubefacient. Though within the last two days he had committed several heinous offences, and one of a darker dye than any with which the reader has been made acquainted, his breast was not yet so callous as to be wholly insensible to the stings of conscience. There was enough contra-light to render her ethereal. Ann Veronica, who knew her dress became her, dropped a curtsy to her father’s regard. 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.
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