There would be no moon. Accepting his glass from the butler, Gerald glanced at Mrs Sindlesham and saw a dimple peep out. One might have said that these trees grieved for their native soil; and, grieving, refused to bear. The voice of the young seaman came floating down from the masthead, and the story of the immortal lovers had begun. 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. I have it about me.
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