A shudder rippled across his shoulders. “Why not?” “Because you are mine. You represented to us the immaculate Briton, the one Englishman who typified the Saxonism, if I may coin a word, of our race. 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. Oblige me by acting under my guidance in the matter, Sir Rowland. With nobody who cares … the both of us!" He was real in this moment.
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