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About Funchal

But—argh!—what gets me blood boilin’ is them prissy folk judgin’ her. “Why’d you come back?”—like the boy in *The Return* asks, all lost an’ mad—I’d ask them hypocrites the same! They sneer, but half o’ ‘em sneak to her door at night, savvy? Makes me wanna keelhaul the lot! She’s just tryin’ to eat, like me scrappin’ fer rum—ain’t no sin in survivin’. Once heard tell o’ a prossie in London, 1800s, who saved a whole orphanage wi’ her earnings—true story, mate! Fed them kids when the toffs wouldn’t. That surprised me, aye, an’ I tipped me hat to her ghost.