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. Lucy? Come 177 on out. Or he would find something—a wave in her hair, a little line in the contour of her brow or neck, that made an exquisite discovery. En tout cas, no one has asked you to puzzle out anything at all. His fingers slipped under the collar of her linen shift and he tore it open with a swipe. Now the baby’s bright May eyes peered up at her intently. Jonathan shook his head.
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