She followed him about persistently, and succeeded, after a brisk, unchivalrous struggle (in which he pinched and asked her to “cheese it”), in kissing him among the raspberries behind the greenhouse. 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. “Okay, Mom. It is useless to talk. I suppose it is the mirrors and decorations. At the threshold of the study he bade her good-night; but he did not touch her forehead with his lips.
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