’ ‘That’s fortunate,’ murmured Lucilla. Rain started to pummel the roof of the pavilion, which coalesced into sheets and rumbled to the cement below. "We're all damaged—we've all got broken pates," cried a dozen voices. I wonder what it was. "You've given me more than the amount, Sir Rowland," he said, after he had twice counted them, "or I've missed my reckoning. 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 me with a coarse nervous laugh.
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