The vault, in which Sir Rowland found himself, resembled in some measure the cabin of a ship. She saw the moonlit waters, the black shadow of the proa, the moon-fire that ran down the far edge of the bellying sail, the silent natives: no sound except the slapping of the outrigger and the low sibilant murmur of water falling away from the sides—and the beating of her heart. You simply can't get good oil down there, so I must husband the few drams I carry. ’ Gerald knew the caress in his voice was a trifle ironic.
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