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. “I feel justified then,” he said, “in annexing his chair. He took some Oreos from the bottomless supply that stocked the cookie jar. The struggle had dislodged the white wimple, which was evidently too large for her, and her black hair broke free, whirling like a whiplash about her head as her hands curled into fists, coming up to beat at his chest, her little teeth bared for attack. She could not make up her mind which was the finer, more elemental thing, which gave its values to the other. The boy would naturally attract the women, if the women were at all romantic.
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