Even her name doesn't survive her reputation. We know that she was reared in the furthest, northernmost part of Ottawa. So after a dreary lifetime in an orphanage (founded by the Sisters of Mercy for the love children of the admittedly small subset of seafaring heterosexuals), she shimmied the rime off her whalebone corset and booked passage. This dusky beauty was taking passage merely to be in motion. She had no real sense of where she must be off to, only that she must be off, gawd she must be off.
A room just above the steam engine and a fortuitous piece of opium provided the paper and stylus for the extended love manifesto that she was poised to draft and looked forward to endless revision. Her various co-composers ranged from cabin boys to captains, from maids and midshipmen.
Yet the generous dispensation of her own considerable charms did not sway Nigel from his attraction. He knew that he was basking in the pheromone-like glow of the best of all possible fortunes: right place ,right time. Lost in some hazy sensual dream, her ongoing activity was a night of various passions followed by anisette in the morning. The distinctive odor of anisette was the only scent that drove the pungent reek of cupid's copious residue off her person. Nigel was smitten. <<<<<