"Like master like man," observed Jack as he rolled the inanimate body to the side of the road. "Suppose we go and have tea? I'd like to take you to a teahouse I know, but we'll go to the Victoria instead. “Ruin me? Think of me with fondness? Are you dying of cancer or something?” He demanded. A slight rain fell at the time; and a few leaves, caught by the eddies, whirled around. 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.
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