’ 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. When she occupied, it, it was neatness itself; the little porch was overrun with creepers—the garden trim and exquisitely kept. ’ She waved towards a handy table to one side which was piled high with so many volumes, it looked in imminent danger of crashing to the floor. Men of action by the scarlet coats with their grey facings—insignia of the county militia. "Don't disturb yourself," said his follower, motioning him to keep still; "it's all right. She doesn't love you; she hasn't the least idea what it means beyond what she has read in novels. ‘I do not need for you to tell me this.
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