Drummond was telling me about the way old Ferringhall rounded upon them all at the club. She whipped round suddenly, and discovered the woman wedged into the corner by the window, keeping out of the way. “But that’s quite different,” replied Anna. Weeks hurled past, weeks that turned into months. He pulled her from him to kiss her on the mouth and paused, looking into her face. 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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