They had not so far been of much personal interest to Gerald, but tonight was different. “The thing I feel most disposed to say, Miss Stanley,” he began at last, “is that this is very sudden. ‘Now you see why it is I no longer require the proof of which I have spoken. ” Lucy looked at the small shelf which was jammed with thick paperbacks by every major horror novelist of the twentieth century. 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. From a bi-secting street came shouting and music. And, incidentally, check on that unfortunate young fellow Kimble. “Girls of sixteen do not need their own laundry hampers. Just let him down easy, Lucy. That's the way she strikes me. As she raised it, its lower portion fell apart into two baggy crimson masses. “Women have been and are treated as the inferiors of men, we want to make them their equals.
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