‘You keep a-hold of him,’ Trodger ordered his men. 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. That was how she projected it, and in general terms it seemed plausible and possible. It was noon when the caravan reached the tower of the water-clock. Fiercely defensive, as usual.
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