He learnt that his sister was privately married—the name or rank of her husband could not be ascertained—and living in retirement in an obscure dwelling in the Borough, where she had given birth to a son. “If she is borrowing money,” said Miss Stanley, “she MUST be getting into debt. He swore that I was his wife, and—I shot him, Nigel, as his arms were closing around me. 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. Good-bye.
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