Shari squealed, clutching her towel around her. She saw his eyes glaze over. “You are my friend,” she said, “if any one is. She cried out his name in ecstasy. 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. Keeping hold of the doorhandle, she turned slowly. “Besides, it is not so. ’ ‘How shocking,’ Gerald returned, grinning. Oh! and love—love! We’ve had so splendid a time, and fought our fight and won. ” “But Italy—” “Italy’s for a good girl,” he said, and laid his hand for a moment on her shoulder. There were seven tales in all—short stories—a method of expression quite strange to her, after the immense canvases of Dickens and Hugo.
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