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 highest form of knowledge was magic: the priesthood. Constance Widgett’s abundant copper-red hair was bent down over some dimly remunerative work—stencilling in colors upon rough, white material—at a kitchen table she had dragged up-stairs for the purpose, while on her bed there was seated a slender lady of thirty or so in a dingy green dress, whom Constance had introduced with a wave of her hand as Miss Miniver. ’ He reached into an inner pocket of his coat and brought out a packet of papers. She felt herself falling, her bile rising in her 61 throat, the cold wind spinning around her like vertigo. \" They talked until midnight most nights. She drew a chair to the window and stared at the splendour of the tropical night.
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