It depresses one, you know. It resembled Mardi Gras, and she thought disdainfully of New Orleans. There were probably others buried around the 13 house, she had seen a suspicious working refrigerator in the back of the garage mess, but she wasn’t about to check it out. Ennison roused himself with an effort, took a long drink from his whisky and soda, and lit a cigarette. 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 as for praying for faith—this sort of monologue is about as near as any one of my sort ever gets to prayer. “Yes,” she said, very faintly.
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