The intruder was handsomely, even richly, attired in a scarlet riding-suit, embroidered with gold; a broad belt, to which a hanger was attached, crossed his shoulders; his boots rose above his knee, and he carried a laced hat in his hand. She bound a scarf tightly round the place where the blood seemed to be coming from. She found herself alone in the train asking herself what she must do next, and trying not to think of herself as cut off from home or any refuge whatever from the world she had resolved to face. “I wonder if there is!” said Capes, and paused, and then bent down over the boy who wore his hair like Russell. She dragged the broken bottle across her carotid artery, creating an inch-deep gash upon her throat. The windows were still darkened—perhaps she was not home yet. 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. God, we suck. Partly, from your confessor; partly, from other sources. Lucy treaded down two steps, stunned.
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