All was darkness, horror, confusion, ruin. The vault, in which Sir Rowland found himself, resembled in some measure the cabin of a ship. She could smell him almost as strongly as she could the new paint on the fire escape walls, along with the wool suit and the weird polyester smell of his wet umbrella. He would have to make sure of her silence. He advanced a step towards her. In stature, he was short and stumpy; in person, corpulent; and in countenance, sleek, snub-nosed, and demure. He was the beachcomber, or the old sailor with the black pearl (Ruth's tales), or the wastrel musician McClintock had described to him. ’ ‘What for?’ asked Gerald, half laughing, as he put his hand in his pocket and brought out his elegant pistol. I shall not part with you again.
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