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. Brown gushed conservatively about the orchestra, letting the audience know about the recording engineers and how proud he was of Martin Chen. She felt very awkward as she stared at 103 the top of his ashen hair. He would never be able to figure out that: all these miles from Cuba, and you could get a perfecto for thirteen cents. They smelled good, but they no longer smelled like food. Their idea of maidenly innocence was just a blank white—the sort of flat white that doesn’t shine. “Until you marry, Vee,” said Hetty. CHAPTER XXIX.
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