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. It’s a sort of home-leaving instinct. “Alone, dear?” “Yes, aunt. He looked at her guiltily. That is why I came to London. It was clear she wanted to get away from home, that she was impatient to get away from home. It’s not like we’re getting married. “You are my friend,” she said, “if any one is.
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