Coconut Grove i like driving backwards in the fog

It was his voice that she first heard. It was a gravely voice, not one meant for fair things such as singing. That he butchered the words was irrelevant, his inability to carry a tune was insult enough. Startled by the sudden voice, Starbuck's head whipped to find its source. 

He was a fair sight uglier than his voice. Starbuck might have recoiled at the sight of his drooping jowles, which dripped with thick saliva in a most unappealing manner. She might have, had she not been raised to pity the unfortunate, not fear them. Still, the sight of him struck her with great uneasiness. And though she normally took compliments for what they were, she did not trust it.

Still, she was not rude, and perhaps this beast needed kind attention. It is the French language, kind stranger, she said. A beautiful language, one meant for poetry and song.