"Been here long?" I asked.
"Long's I can remember," she answered.
"Like it?"
"I love it. It's all I got. Never been away from it more'n three times in my life."
There was something akin to longing in her voice.
"I love it all the same,—all but that over there."
As she spoke, she shivered and pointed away out to the great perpendicular rock, with its jagged, devilish, shark-like teeth, which rose sheer out of the water and stood black, forbidding and snarling, even in the sunshine, to the right, at the entrance to the Bay, a quarter of a mile or so from the far horn of Golden Crescent.
"You don't like rocks?"
"Some rocks," she whispered, "but not 'The Ghoul.'"
"The Ghoul," I repeated with a shudder. "Ugh!—what a name. Who on earth saddled it with such a horrible name?"