"That was the lad's name," returned the stranger. I rarely set foot in London these days. “Hainault, Celeste’s friend. "Not a single whooper-upter! Nothing but torment and remorse … and Ruth! Children, put your arms around me. He stopped in mid-sentence, and Ann Veronica opened the door for her aunt. The months that followed September spiraled downward. 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 see me here, an admitted failure in the object to which I have devoted two years of my life.
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