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 shape of the head, the height and breadth of the brow, the angle of the nose, the cut of the chin and jaws, all were fine, of a type she had never before looked upon closely. Shall we say at half-past seven?” She rose from her chair. “Is this true, Annabel? Is he dead?” She nodded. There is a place—This isn’t the place.
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