The silence of Canton at night was sinister, for none could prophesy what form of mob might suddenly boil out. She felt the whack from about six feet away, kitty corner. If there is any drinking, I'll do it. 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. And many of these deaths could be avoided if it were not for superstition.
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