She dared not look directly at him, her head obscured by a gray hoodie, she had the slumped appearance of an androgynous adolescent. “Take off your tunic. What could I do at home? The other’s a crumple-up—just surrender. 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. Michelle answered the door. “There,” he said, “you don’t treat me fairly, Miss Stanley.
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