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"What's that to you?" retorted Jack, surlily. Are these folks your current foster parents?” “Yes. 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. ‘Come, Jacques, mon pauvre,’ she uttered, and reached for the lad again, hardly aware of the muted sounds of running feet and much banging and crashing beyond the secret door. She held out her hand for it, but Gerald smiled. She is like some character out of Phra the Phoenician: she's been buried for thirty years and just been excavated. Between her and the fair, far prospect of freedom and self-development manoeuvred Mr. Does it?” “I think it does. I learned the trick of the place from one Paul Groves, who used to live here, and who contrived the machine.
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