But he died when he was a child—long ago—long ago—long ago. \" She said, and they walked down the pebble stone path designed for joggers and bikers. 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. There are way-stations—even terminals.
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