Gaunt and grizzled, eyes shining with a crazy glitter, the remaining crew of the Falmouth packet closed in on Abby and Matthew. A sun-browned sailor wearing only torn trousers and a turban pointed a gnarled finger lacking its tip. “One minute she’s dead an’ I’m sewing ’er up in shrouds,” he said. “The next minute she sits up, and is talkin’ in a langwidge that sounds like English but ain’t. Sayin’ a spell, she was.”
