She opened her suitcase—new and smelling strongly of leather—and took out of it a book, dogeared and precariously held together, bound in faded blue cloth and bearing the inscription: The Universal Handbook. “There are two things to be done,” he said softly to himself. ‘Don’t involve me in your lover’s tiff. For hats that fail and hats that flare; Toppers their universal wear; A man scores always, everywhere. She would not sleep for fear of losing a moment of that sense of his proximity.
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