Detention was merry for the other detainees. And if the woman is not a rival, she must be—yes, that must be it. He had conveyed it to her, not verbally, but by means of a letter, which seemed to her a singularly ignoble method of prohibition. What she did not know, and what she was never to know, was that the divine fire was hers. 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. For four hours he had shifted his own troubles to the shoulders of these imaginative characters. I certainly didn’t mean to kiss you. .
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