Buck up. She realized dimly that there was no personal thing behind his cry, that countless myriads of Mannings had “My God!”-ed with an equal gusto at situations as flatly apprehended. You are in danger. 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. At any rate, I can see that you’re not protecting him at all. "I know the hand—ha! my friend! and I have murdered him! And my sister was thus nobly, thus illustriously wedded. It was warm, shielding, comforting, and what was more, full of understanding.
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