The vault, in which Sir Rowland found himself, resembled in some measure the cabin of a ship. That delightful sense of free, unembarrassed movement was gone. There he sat as before, with the heavy fetters on his limbs, and beside him sat his three companions, who had since expiated their offences on the gibbet. Drummond smoked his cigarette meditatively. One from 1966, a yearbook photo reprinted in a newspaper. A smile trembled at the corners of her mouth as she recalled Gerald’s ridiculous upbraiding of his own reflection in the mirror.
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