His salvation—if there was to be any—lay in her ignorance of life. Reconnoitring them through a small grated loophole, he refused to open the door till they had explained their business. 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. “Cheveney wouldn’t have anything to say about it, as it happens,” he remarked, a little grimly.
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