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. "When in France, I heard from the Marshal that his brother had perished in London on the night of the Great Storm. That poor child, trying to escape, and not knowing how. I completed it according to the directions, you see, and it was a beautiful machine, a triangle sort of, with a steering column I built out of an old wheelbarrow and a hubcap. Oh, goodness! Bilking! Ann Veronica, you’re a bilker!” Pause.
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