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She drifted, via Theobald’s Road, obliquely toward the region about Titchfield
Street. I don’t suppose a girl can tell if a man is in love with her or not in love
with her. 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. The tourist season would soon be at ebb,
and it would be late in September before the tide returned. She put her clothes back on,
118
lipstick smeared all over her face. Buried under various ancestral sixteenths, smothered under
modern thought, liberty of action and bewildering variety of flesh-pots, it was
still alive to the extent that it needed only his present state to resuscitate it in all
its peculiar force.
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This video was uploaded to flood-rescue.com on 12-07-2024 04:25:38