"I think you're all bewitched," she cried. But at this, he halted, turning his frowning gaze back on her. 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. The tree-lined streets were silent except for the sporadic revving of glass packs down Church Avenue. Manning called. I don’t think you and Mike are right for each other.
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