Auburn hair cascading down in ringlettes around her ashen face, Mrs. Marjorie Lovett burst through the thin door of Suite 42 and stumbled clumsily into the main hall of the ship. Her eyes narrowed in a vengful glare. She remembered the burn, the fear, the spite... the broken trust. Her broken heart. Marching down the walk with her rolling pin
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"Yes, acutally," she grinned, "Can you tell me where we are, and where we are going?"
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Her words were short and too the point; his name was obviously a topic of distaste.
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