“Dreadful women, my dear!” said Miss Stanley. With such qualifications as she possessed, two chief channels of employment lay open, and neither attracted her, neither seemed really to offer a conclusive escape from that subjection to mankind against which, in the person of her father, she was rebelling. Never was heard such a bawling as these unfortunate wights kept up. Apparently I’m not to exist yet. I don’t believe in the faults. 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. And I've made up my mind that a husband ought to believe only half that he hears, and nothing that he sees. I’m like a creature just wakened up.
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