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. You cannot refuse me this. Kneebone assured her that he did say so; and, as a further proof of his sincerity, squeezed her hand very warmly under the table. Lucy had baked the apple and pumpkin pies, carefully molding the flour crusts and adding extra teaspoonfuls of allspice and cinnamon while no one looked.
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