’ 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. He loved you. To even presume a lustful thought about her was to ask for one’s own death. "Sir!" exclaimed Winifred, rising. Why was she noting things like this? Capes seemed selfpossessed and elaborately genial and commonplace, but she knew him to be nervous by a little occasional clumsiness, by the faintest shadow of vulgarity in the urgency of his hospitality. He kissed her deeply and hungrily. "If I could only make you realize what you have done," he said, lamely. In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen. ’ He shifted unguardedly, and hissed a breath, wincing. You are wholly in my power. “Anna,” he said, “you make it all indescribably hard for me.
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