She was greatly exercised by the problem of confiding in the Widgetts; they were dears, and she talked away two evenings with Constance without broaching the topic; she made some vague intimations in letters to Miss Miniver that Miss Miniver failed to mark. 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. ’ ‘Yes, but I do not like to scrub the floor and peel the vegetables and feed the pig. Ennison,” she said. It fell to the ground and smoked ominously. It was a night well-fitted to their enterprise, calm, still, and profoundly dark. ‘Certainly, if I was a nun, I know of many good names.
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