’ ‘Lord, yes,’ agreed Gerald, in mock horror. 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. “Will they worry about you getting caught in a storm?” She asked him as she viewed black clouds floating in different directions. Bribble’s rendering of the service —he had the sort of voice that brings out things—and was still teeming with ideas about it when finally a wild outburst from the organ made it clear that, whatever snivelling there might be down in the chancel, that excellent wind instrument was, in its Mendelssohnian way, as glad as ever it could be. She was carefree. She hated the manor. Elegant, a little scornful, she leaned slightly against the back of a chair and looked him steadily in the eyes.
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