She spoke slowly. Ann Veronica stood in the twilight room staring at the door that had slammed upon her aunt, her pocket-handkerchief rolled tightly in her hand. " "Ah," said Spurlock; "that kind of a man. " "Write him," urged Spurlock, finding speech. 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. I am going to smoke a little here, and then I shall go to the study. “It isn’t a joke,” she said.
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