Ann Veronica felt suddenly an effect of tremendous pathos; she would have given anything to have been able to frame and make some appeal, some utterance that should bridge this bottomless chasm that had opened between her and her father, and she could find nothing whatever to say that was in the least sincere and appealing. If only he had known it, sympathy was almost entirely with him. I'll have no such toast drunk at my table!" "It's the king's birthday," urged the woollen draper. "More than you'll pay for it, friend," snuffled the Jew. 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.
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