" "You're strangely superstitious, Sir Rowland," said Jonathan, halting, and looking steadfastly at him. She could smell the savory tinge of his sweat in the air. “I can tell you are thinking about it. No, don’t let me call myself that. The vault, in which Sir Rowland found himself, resembled in some measure the cabin of a ship. I would be chased by every curious party on this planet, by vampireseekers, by witch-hunters, by researchers, you name it. She spent a very disagreeable afternoon and evening—it was raining fast outside, and she had very unwisely left her soundest pair of boots in the boothole of her father’s house in Morningside Park—thinking over the economic situation and planning a course of action.
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