She dared not say the word aloud, not even to herself. Mischief bubbled up in her. 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. ‘I’ll send one of my men to see you here this very evening. All this Woman-who-Diddery —no damn good. Kind of knows it, too. Even in death, Vorsack was not a man. "But what does he mean by calling you a wanton? —you, my wife?" Enschede's hand slipped from his daughter's shoulder.
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