One trouble, however, shot its slanting bolts athwart the shining warmth of that opening day and marred its perfection, and that was the thought of her father. You shall have your reward. 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. He swore that I was his wife, and—I shot him, Nigel, as his arms were closing around me. This was the bitterest hour he had ever known.
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