Lucy grabbed his shirtsleeve, whispering on tiptoe. “Do something!” But he laid by his prey, half-watching the fight, gorging on the woman he had caught that had been meant for Rhea and her child. He spoke English with astonishing facility and with a purity which often embarrassed his tourists. He was going to tell me something— and he shut up. 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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