’ She eyed him. "My head fairly turns round. Blueskin might have butchered you and your brat before I'd have lifted a finger to prevent him, if it hadn't suited my purposes to do so, and he hadn't incurred my displeasure. Here is one verse. Just as he was about to drain it, he encountered the basilisk glance of Jonathan Wild, and paused. You see to what it has brought you. A stout wooden shutter, opening inwardly, being removed, disclosed a grating of iron bars. 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. Spurlock sat limply, his arms hanging. His curiosity, his literary instincts, had been submerged by the recurring thought of the fool he had made of himself. Now, more than ever, it was time to start running.
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