she lived, or so they say, in a cabin way out in the chokoloskee swamp--hidden among a dense hammock of water-oaks and palmettos and gumbo-limbos, where noise and prying eyes could not interfere. so far from the decency of common life, she was free to hike up her skirts and bare her tan shapely legs--free to let own the lengths of her hair in the afternoon sun, and delight in the deliciousness of life. and, in the shade of her secret glen, as though it were a temple, she made strange covenant with nature, or so they tell. the ungodly howls of nighy creatures did not fill her with terror, but excitement. on a moonless night, they claim, she would slip out of her skin to run through the jungle in the swift lithe form of a panther. she would lie naked on the edge of the water and sleep among the alligators and the copperheads and the mud. and for a good pelt or a couple of live chickens, and a promise not to tell, she said she'd teach me how to do it, too--and more.