‘Again?’ Another simple parry. We don’t consider each other; we needn’t. ‘I suppose you think I can’t manage it myself,’ had complained Captain Roding sarcastically. ” He was a little bewildered. She's my mealticket. He savored the last solo, the coda. 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.
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