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While the carpenter irresolutely quitted the room, with a strong presentiment of ill upon his mind, a light quick step was heard descending the stairs, and before he could call out to prevent it, a man was admitted into the passage. Pure luck! If the boy had grown a moustache or a beard, a needle in the haystack would have been soft work. 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. Given the proper incentive, who could say that he might not likewise go nobly to some fine end? She thrilled. Never glance sideways at man.
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