‘That is good,’ she said with satisfaction, ‘for I was compelled on Saturday to abandon the chase. It’s wrong in the eyes of most people. 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. . He told her something about music, the great world outside. ‘Indeed?’ Gerald said politely. Her secret thoughts made some hasty, half-hearted excursions into the possibility of telling the thing in romantic tones—Ramage was as a black villain, she as a white, fantastically white, maiden. Pull over there. It had ceased raining, but the atmosphere was moist and chill, and the ground deluged by the recent showers. For a time her efforts to achieve a comprehensive concentration were dispersed by the passage of the village street of Caddington, the passing of a goggled car-load of motorists, and the struggles of a stable lad mounted on one recalcitrant horse and leading another.
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