"After my fashion. Prior trip, until I got dumped in a quaint little Village." Somehow she pronounces the capital letter, and the word, with a weary venom; hatred that has outlasted its animating fire. "...That hellhound you smell like did me a good turn, after her own fashion. Been drifting ever since, too...me...to die right. An' I did try to die right, but since I'm here, I need a job. C'est la morte, non?"