It’s a sort of home-leaving instinct. “I can’t imagine, Miss Pellissier,” Brendon said, leaning towards her, “whatever made you think of coming to stay if only for a week at a Montague Street boarding-house. We don’t want things to happen. Piercing through every crevice in the clothes, it, in some cases, tore them from the wearer's limbs, or from his grasp. 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. On that basis alone, he had no right to give or accept love.
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