On this side a flight of wooden steps, protected by a hand-rail, led to a door opening upon the summit of the prison. Ruth's arm trembled and her step faltered, but he was too far away in thought to be observant. As she went on, the story began to sound more and more like a recitation. These particulars are familiar to all, who have any title to the knowledge. She felt he was going to say something more—something still more personal and intimate. Then she dropped the curtain and stepped back into the room. 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. “We should get out of here. “Read this, John. "His life—or yours?" "No one shall harm you more, my dear," cried Lady Trafford.
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