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 truth!” It was a moment of awkwardness between the two sisters —a moment, too, charged with its own psychological interest, for there were secrets between them which for many months had made their intercourse a constrained and difficult thing. “You are Sir John Ferringhall,” she repeated. She gaped at its keep, at least ten feet tall, a frightening gray coffin turned upright. She was faint from hunger, her head spinning into dizziness, the blood madness readying for battle. He had seen the announcement of your marriage in the papers, and he imagined that I simply wanted to remain unknown because of your husband’s puritanism. “Time for my Patience,” she said. Her hormones were raging stupidly. ‘You will not believe any of my very clever lies. It had thrust her back with an undignified scuffle, with vulgar comedy, with an unendurable, scornful grin. I firmly believe that she is as straight as a die.
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