But there was a face pressed to the glass. “It was unpleasant while it lasted, but it is over —and my toasted scones are delicious. She donned her fuzzy slippers and traipsed downstairs, the welcoming smell of coffee beckoning her, the sound of Looney Toons music barely audible from the television set. He died when I was. Beyond the steps was a pole-chair in readiness. She had had to do away with many a leering foster father since she had started frequenting foster homes in the middle of the century. Oh, it is unbearable. 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. My dear! we’ve had so many moments! I used to go over the times we’d had together, the things we’d said—like a rosary of beads. It isn’t sentiment but it’s horse sense.
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