’ 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. As his eyes adjusted, he was able to make out the great shrouded shapes of the furniture. The queer phase of the dream was this, she was at no time a woman; she was symbolical of something, and he followed to learn what this something was. “You’re—I don’t know,” said Ann Veronica. He slid out of her.
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