The whole story of your relationship is a fabrication. Promise me that you will not disobey the injunctions of her whose memory we must both of us ever revere. In a voice husky with suppressed despair, she answered. 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. Perhaps what urged her interest in the young man's direction was the dead whiteness of his face, the puffed eyelids and the bloodshot whites. A young man —almost a boy, slight, dark, and with his brother’s deep grey eyes—came across the room to her.
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