“It was a little cottage, you may suppose,” he said, presently, “but she found space for Em’ly in it⁠—her husband was away at sea⁠—and she kep it secret, and prevailed upon such neighbours as she had (they was not many near) to keep it secret too. Em’ly was took bad with fever, and, what is very strange to me is⁠—maybe ’tis not so strange to scholars⁠—the language of that country went out of her head, and she could only speak her own, that no one unnerstood. She recollects, as if she had dreamed it, that she lay there always a-talking her own tongue, always believing as the old boat was round the next pint in the bay, and begging and imploring of ’em to send theer and tell how she was dying, and bring back a message of forgiveness, if it was on’y a wured. A’most the whole time, she thowt⁠—now, that him as I made mention on just now was lurking for her unnerneath the winder; now that him as had brought her to this was in the room⁠—and cried to the good young woman not to give her up, and know’d, at the same time, that she couldn’t unnerstand, and dreaded that she must be took away.