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. But how to avail himself of it was the question, for in his present garb he was sure to be recognised. Too busy. Lucy was sent reeling into a stone wall, which she hit with a great thud. “Please forgive me—for one moment,” she sobbed. Maggot. Tell Bess to slip out, and I'll put on her cloak and hood. An hour was then passed in conversation as to the possibility of rendering any assistance to Jack; in deploring his unhappy destiny; and in the consideration of the course to be pursued in reference to Jonathan Wild.
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