The fire still burned brightly. Tom Sheppard was always a close file, and would never tell whom he married. When they made love, he seemed to shift into the realm of possessiveness. “Often,” he repeated, a little heavily. Above her head was an aura of white fire. 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. That was the true marvel of it.
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