But he was a thief, a fugitive from justice. She allowed herself to be ejected, therefore, and retired to the parlour after cleansing the blood from her hands and her own slight wound in the kitchen. 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. ‘You have no idea how dull the militia is compared to the Army. Or perhaps my father once. He had conveyed it to her, not verbally, but by means of a letter, which seemed to her a singularly ignoble method of prohibition. Most of the boys did not possess the manners that he did. “She told you that?” “Yes. ‘Can’t you trust me a little?’ His touch sent shivers running through her, but Melusine did not withdraw her hand. And I want you for myself—for my wife. .
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