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. Then she shrugged. And then—this sudden thrust. Little did he know that she had begged her parents as a youngster to get her a language tutor. She killed a man who was squatting outside of a freezing brick shanty on the southern edge of Chicago as he waited for his dealer. She says to be home by one AM. Never really thought about Him—people don’t.
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