He had conveyed it to her, not verbally, but by means of a letter, which seemed to her a singularly ignoble method of prohibition. I’ll make any reasonable arrangement you like. They were bickering, she could tell by the way the mother threw her fat arms into the air and paced restlessly about the tiny clapboard house. Inquiring for Mrs. She was going to him soon and certainly, going to his strong, embracing arms. It was a letter. 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.
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