In the retrospect she was amazed to think how things had gone to pieces, for at the outset she had been quite prepared to go home again upon terms. So far the thing was acceptable enough. 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's not my son," rejoined the carpenter. Please check the Project Gutenberg Web pages for current donation methods and addresses. "But you said you weren't particular.
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