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. She addressed him in a tone of puzzlement. "But never mind who, or what I am. Then enter Mr. He was safe, out of the beaten track, at last really comparable to the needle in the haystack. That’s my point. We can’t afford to turn our women, our Madonnas, our Saint Catherines, our Mona Lisas, our goddesses and angels and fairy princesses, into a sort of man. Cathy's eyebrows perked up.
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