She thought of her father in the garden, and of her aunt with her Patience, as she had seen them—how many ages was it ago? Just one day intervened. They either ran to see or ran for shelter. She felt terribly modern, even sporty as the magazines declared you should be. “I ought to look up Gwen,” she said. You’re a good friend. 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 may not know you’re in England, but if he has the smallest knowledge of your character, he must surely be expecting you. ’ ‘Mercy me,’ gasped the nun. A knot of three policemen in conflict with her staggered toward Ann Veronica’s attendants and distracted their attention.
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