Her father was an astute businessman and a hard worker, but also handsome in the face which had aided partly his ascension to the Guild. But when it came to broaching them, it proved to be much more difficult than she had supposed. She stood there with white set face and nervously clenched fingers. 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. Unless he has killed someone. “You be off, missie,” said the fatherly policeman.
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