’ Chapter Three Captain Hilary Roding listened with only half an ear to the long-winded report being given by Sergeant Trodger, his idle gaze wandering over the congested traffic of Piccadilly and the many pedestrians weaving a hazardous path through it. There must be persons tender and loving in this world. He pulled her from him to kiss her on the mouth and paused, looking into her face. Day by day she followed the spiritual and physical contest between this man and woman. A simple wooden monument was placed over the grave, but without any name or date. “It is a very pleasant place,” said Ann Veronica, biting a rhododendron stalk through, and with that faint shadow of a smile returning to her lips. All he will say is that she said so—as if anyone could believe a word the girl said. Yet, here she was, in the ancient Chinese city, weaving in and out of the narrow streets some scarcely wide enough for two men to walk abreast, streets that boiled and eddied with yellow human beings, who worshipped strange gods, ate strange foods, and diffused strange suffocating smells. He looked at her, hurt. His hand went to his pocket and extracted a neat silver-mounted pistol.
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