‘Home?’ ‘To your family. 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. Shotbolt, who had in some degree recovered from the effects of his previous mortification, was thrown into an ecstacy of delight, and could not sufficiently exult over the prisoner. “Dear friend,” she said, “this is a matter which you must leave to me to do as I think best. Meantime, a change had taken place in the weather. —Providence, I mean—HAS arranged it so that men will keep you, more or less.
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