They were now in a sort of cellar, at one end of which was a door. "Not my king's," returned Wood. He was reaching wearily for some kind of buffer to his harrying conscience. 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 think a wife a needless incumbrance, and mean to die a bachelor. There are no funerals among the poor, only burials.
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