She stopped abruptly at the sound of his voice, and lost the thread of what she was saying. 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. Who knows?—on the analogy of “Squiggles” she might come to call him “Mangles!” “I don’t think I can ever marry any one,” she said, and fell suddenly into another set of considerations that perplexed her for a time. You know the sort of thing. There's the paragraph. Michelle opened the door to her the master 44 bedroom.
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