The G. “Is it your maid?” he asked. “I must live, you know. They seemed the most wrapped things in all Ann Veronica’s wrappered world. I must apologize, I suppose, for speaking to you, but your appearance certainly indicated that you were in some sort of trouble, and you were becoming—pardon me—an object of comment to the passers-by. Perhaps it was just as well there was no inherited memory. How long he sat there, reeling off this drivel, he never knew. 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.
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