’ ‘Ah, so that’s where Valade comes in,’ nodded Lucy. She hesitated in answering the door, her violin still crooked underneath her chin. 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 twanged the catgut under her fingers. With delicate touch he rescued all that was possible of them, and made a careful little parcel. All at once they came to the top, the faded blue sky overhead, and whichever way he looked, the horizon, the great rocking circle which hemmed them in. I have always had a secret crush on him, to be honest with you.
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