"One night I had been awakened by her yells
(since the medical men had pronounced her mad, she had, of course, been shut up)
it was a fiery West Indian night; one of the description that frequently precede the hurricanes of those climates.
Being unable to sleep in bed, I got up and opened the window.
The air was like sulphur-steams -- I could find no refreshment anywhere.
Mosquitoes came buzzing in and hummed sullenly round the room;
the sea, which I could hear from thence, rumbled dull like an earthquake -- black clouds were casting up over it;
the moon was setting in the waves, broad and red, like a hot cannon-ball
she threw her last bloody glance over a world quivering with the ferment of tempest.
I was physically influenced by the atmosphere and scene,
and my ears were filled with the curses the maniac still shrieked out;
wherein she momentarily mingled my name with such a tone of demon-hate, with such language!
no professed harlot ever had a fouler vocabulary than she: though two rooms off, I heard every word
the thin partitions of the West India house opposing but slight obstruction to her wolfish cries."