" It was curiously like the intermittent murmur of the surf, those weird Sundays, when her father paused for breath to launch additional damnation for those who disobeyed the Word. 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. "Ho, no," replied Jack. ’ ‘Glad you’re so sanguine,’ interrupted Captain Roding. “Would you mind calling that hansom for me?” He looked at it critically and shook his head. “What is the good of pretending?” she said.
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