A sob was strangled in her throat. William Kneebone was a woollen-draper of "credit and renown," whose place of business was held at the sign of the Angel (for, in those days, every shop had its sign), opposite Saint Clement's church in the Strand. 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. She had always wondered when they would start being able to trace her kills, with their expanding systems of criminal databases and computers, and now it was starting to happen. I have been used to living in apartments in Paris, but I suppose the system is different here. . I hoped for a family like the Becks and I waded through the system until I got them, so maybe life isn’t so damn hopeless after all.
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