She looked upon it with pity as she drank his diabetic blood and saw that several of his fingers were missing. Gerald shook his head. 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. "All life is a muddle, and we are all muddlers, more or less. It had been her father’s surname, and it had sounded far more innocuous and American than Iovelli. Good riddance. Then Valade—was the man as big a fool as Nicholas?—tried again. It is very sweet of you to have waited for me.
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