Then he threw the letter at me. ‘Only me name,’ Kimble said apologetically. It’s best. Look at me, and answer me one question. "Mr. ” Lucy relied. It must be some days before you can arrange for her to make an identification. 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. ‘Very well, mademoiselle, so be it,’ he snapped.
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