She had followed a bobbing white hat and gray jacket until she reached the Euston Road corner of Tottenham Court Road, and there, by the name on a bus and the cries of a conductor, she made a guess of her way. Full as she was of him, it felt good to shower her kill out of her hair. Quite right. The door leading to the front of the house was stealthily opening. Ann Veronica had had some training at the Tredgold College in disentangling threads from confused statements, and she had a curious persuasion that in all this fluent muddle there was something—something real, something that signified. They chatted pleasantly as he drove around the neighborhood for a half an hour, then stopped by the Diedermayer house.
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