It happened that at the extremest point of Ann Veronica’s social circle from the Widgetts was the family of the Morningside Park horsedealer, a company of extremely dressy and hilarious young women, with one equestrian brother addicted to fancy waistcoats, cigars, and facial spots. 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. “No, that’s fine. I am the richest man in England. I give you the plain, unadulterated truth. “I wrote it for you. She hated the manor. "Put it under my pillow," he said. He had no wish to drag the footman out of his way, once he had got his questions answered.
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