Its cavernous expanses equaled the upstairs of the house. She entered quietly and padded up to her shared bedroom. “Please go and see that—nothing happens,” she pleaded. 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 fiction you make the Chinese secretive, criminal, and terrible—or comic. Shocked, Melusine shot out of that blanketing warmth of sensation. With your pencil you see into the hearts of all; and without your pencil you are dumb and blind. You are my wife, and I am determined to claim you.
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