There was something menacing and uncomfortable in the funereal stillness, in the muffled, subtle trickle of distant brooks, and in the crowding green peaks and black-wooded precipices that choked the narrow horizon.

He's a foreign-looking guy with thinnish black hair and a meaty sort of pan.

I think we've all got the idea. There's no need to labour the point.

There were pentacolored cushions woven out of dragon hair, rugs whose borders were silk brocaded, couches made out of long elephants’ tusks, and mattresses plainted with purplish silk matting.[…]The story is about a handsome and amorous fisherman who once failed to catch a fish for three days, but instead obtained a pentacolored tortoise.