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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"Yeeeessss," she answer came out with a slight hiss at the end, as she exhaled the steam built up in her chest.
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People were now out of the question. She knew what it felt like to be baked, and it was not lovely.
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"Who is this "he," if I may ask?"
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Someone new.
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"I am Maria Moriarty, opera singer. Or retired opera singer, at any rate. And you seem to be...a baker of some sort. And I believe it is you who is new, madam. My daughter and I have been trapped on this...ship for some time. Although, it is better than London, I suppose."
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"No one, I guess, if I can't find him," she lowered the pin as she spoke, shrugging. "It's nice to meet you, at any rate."
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