She sat in deep thought for a moment or two, and then nodding briskly, dipped the pen in the ink again and began to write. Jack turned away with an aching heart. 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. He was no Hoddy, but a tremendous man, with hairy arms and bearded face and drink-shattered intellect. The marriage cannot—shall not be delayed. Last week.
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